


All That Will Remain

by fancyh



Series: All That Will Remain [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-03-29 14:40:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 105,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13929186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyh/pseuds/fancyh
Summary: Post Captain America: The Winter Soldier. Bucky embarks on a journey of self-discovery after having been a weapon in the hands of Hydra for 70 years. As he remembers what happened to him and who he used to be he has to figure out who he is now, and how he and Steve fit together in this new world.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday Bucky Barnes!

He left the man-Captain America-Ste- on the bank and ran. His broken arm throbbed in rhythm with his steps, his heart beating a silent refrain. _You know me_ _. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You're my friend. I'm with you to the end of the line-_

He shook his head, willing the pounding thoughts away. Water droplets sprayed through the air, his wet uniform clinging to him uncomfortably. _Focus,_ he told himself.  _Mission._ But what was his mission? He couldn't kill the man-St-he couldn't kill Captain America. He knew that without knowing why, an irrefutable fact seared into his heart like a brand. Hydra was in shambles, the helicarriers spread in fiery ruins across the Potomac. He had no other orders except  _kill Captain America. Stop him at all costs._ But something about the man-Captain America; he couldn't say the name-had shaken something loose in his head, an onslaught of emotion and _wrong wrong wrong_ threatening to drown him. Part of him wanted to crawl back to Hydra, to beg them to fix him, to make it  _stop._ The other part was snarling to  _protect_  St-Captain America,that Hydra was  _wrong._ It whispered a name.  _James Buchanan Barnes._ Weapons didn't have names. Was he a weapon or a man?  _Mission,_ his brain said.  _Yes,_ he thought.  _Mission._

The soldier faded into the shadows using honed skill, avoiding the swarms of people searching through the rubble. Shield soldiers swept the area, civilians shrieking and pointing at the wreckage, news cameras aimed at the scene. Amid the chaos he slipped past unnoticed, snagging a rain jacket left hanging on a news van. He put it on, covering the distinctive silver gleam of his metal arm. Then, like a ghost, he was disappearing into the depths of the city.

His right arm was nonfunctional, the humerus broken and throbbing with daggers of white-hot pain. He ignored it, used to pain. It would heal in a few days. He found himself in a deserted alley, littered with trash that had never made it to the dumpster along one side. Suddenly he heard a rustling coming from the dumpster. He tensed, withdrawing a knife from his pants. He crept towards the dumpster on silent feet, eyes narrowed. With a fluid motion he lifted the lid, poising the knife to strike.

He paused, blinking in surprise. A small black cat sat at the bottom, looking up at him with mournful eyes. It gave a pitiful meow, scratching at the side of the dumpster. It had probably climbed in to get food and then gotten stuck. The soldier blinked. The cat blinked back. Suspiciously, he reached in slowly and grabbed the cat by its scruff, lifting it up in front of him. It dangled there, thin and bedraggled as it meowed at him. Its tiny paws batted the air ineffectually as it stared at him.

The soldier carefully placed the cat on the ground, sheathing his knife. It promptly sat down and started washing its paw. He stared. Then he started moving down the alley again. When he looked back, the cat was following him. He stopped. The cat continued up to him, rubbing against his leg. He started at the contact, staring down at the small creature in confusion. What was it doing? Hesitantly, he crouched down, extending his hand on some long-forgotten memory. He realized it was the metal one, suddenly feeling the urge to hide it, then wondering at the thought. But the cat only sniffed it for a second before rubbing its head against his hand as it purred. He could feel the pressure against the metal hand but nothing else, and suddenly had the impulse to feel the soft fur. Before he could act he straightened up abruptly, shaking his head. What was he doing? Angry at himself for allowing himself to be distracted he kept walking quickly, not looking back. But his enhanced ears picked up the sounds of soft paws padding against the ground, flashes of black in his peripheral vision. The cat was following him again. He did nothing. A part of him wondered if this was some Hydra experiment tracking him but he didn't care if they knew. He planned to go straight to them. He was going to go back to the base and get everything he would need to disappear; remove the trackers Hydra thought he didn't know about, get money, food, and new clothes.

He strode with purpose, sticking to the shadows as he navigated his way to the bank vault. When he got to the concealed entrance he stripped off the raincoat and threw it on the ground, tapping out the code on the door. The cat bumped into his shins again. He picked it up, placing it gingerly on the raincoat where it made a few circles before curling up in satisfaction. The door opened with a hiss, the people inside looking up curiously. When they saw the soldier their eyes widened, giving each other meaningful looks. Armed guards strode forward, pointing their guns at the solider. He affected a submissive pose, hands behind his back and head lowered while he surreptitiously counted the number of people. 5 techs, 5 guards. This would be easy.

"Soldier reporting for debriefing," he said flatly. The guns lowered, the guards coming forward to take his arms. 

"Holy cow, I thought he was dead," one tech remarked. "Thought he went down with the helicarriers."

"I know right," another answered. "Pierce was going to decommission him after this, but now I guess we'll need him again. Hell of a lucky break he survived."

"Yeah," a third tech said. "Hydra may be down but we're not out. I don't know where any of the upper management is, but I guess we should get him cleaned up." He gestured to the soldier. "Looks like he took a swim in the Potomac."

One of the guard's chuckled, gripping the soldier's injured arm forcefully and making him grit his teeth. "He's like a wet dog, crawling back to his master and dripping all over the carpet." The other guards laughed. The solider was used to such comments, but for some reason now it rankled him. He felt shame crawling up his spine, a sudden rage at Hydra burning in his gut.

With sudden, deadly precision he broke the guard's hold, grabbing his gun and shooting him between the eyes. The other four followed in quick succession before they had time to raise their weapons, bodies slumping lifelessly to the floor. He turned the gun on the techs, who were cowering against the other wall and whimpering.

"Who knows the arm?" he questioned harshly.

The techs looked between each other nervously, none seeming to want to speak up. The soldier fired a shot next to their heads, eliciting shrieks.

"Who. Knows. The arm," he gritted out.

One tech raised a trembling hand, not looking at the soldier. Unflinchingly, he shot the others. The tech jerked and gasped, eyes squeezing tight. When no other shot came, he hesitantly opened them, looking at the soldier.

"Get up," the soldier ordered.

The tech moved hastily to comply, standing on shaking legs as he tried not to look at the other techs. The soldier jerked his gun at the tech to come closer, gesturing to his arm.

"Remove the trackers," he said. "Try anything, and I make your death last a lifetime."

The tech set to work with wide eyes, prying open the plates on his arm and fishing around with pliers. Three times he withdrew circular trackers, a red light blinking from them. He set them on the table, closing up the arm. The soldier clenched his fist, feeling the plates move smoothly. He pointed his gun at the tech again.

"Any others?"

The tech nodded hesitantly. "One in your outer left thigh."

The soldier nodded before shooting the tech between the eyes. He crumpled, eyes wide and glassy. Withdrawing his knife, the soldier took off his tactical pants. He prodded his thigh until he felt the hard lump, positioning the knife over it. He cut a deep slice before grabbing the pliers, wiggling them around in the meat of his thigh before he clamped the tracker. He withdrew it slowly, blood coating the tracker and trickling from the wound in steady rivulets. He placed the tracker next to the others on the table before heading into adjoining supply room. He found gauze and medical tape and crudely patched up his thigh, not feeling the pain. From the stack of uniforms he selected a pair of dark pants and combat boots along with a black t-shirt. He put them on, also grabbing a pair of leather gloves. He tore open the safe in the wall, stuffing wads of cash into a duffel bag along with the MREs and water on the shelf, extra clothing and medical supplies, and several guns and knives. Satisfied, he did a check of the rest of the base to make sure there was no one left. The place was empty except for the bodies in the front room, blood pooling on the floor. He got to the last room farthest back, pushing through the barred door and freezing.

The chair stood in the far corner of the room, solid and menacing. Screens were placed on either side, blank with the absence of an occupant. Cuffs lined the arms of the chair, thick and unbreakable. The halo of metal above the chair hung like an executioner's axe, awaiting its next victim. The soldier stared at the chair, feeling horror and rage start to rise.  _Wipe him, and start over._ He always remembered the chair. They could take everything from him, till there was nothing left, but he would always remember it. But weapons didn't question anything. Weapons didn't disobey. Was he a weapon? Or had they made him into one, stripped away his humanity with every wipe? He couldn't remember enough to answer that.

He felt something snap, deep inside. With a snarl he launched himself at the chair, ripping and clawing at it with his metal hand. He ripped the metal halo down, smashing it into pieces as an unearthly scream of rage left his lips. He destroyed the chair piece by piece until the room was littered with shards of metal. When he finally stopped he was breathing heavily, the only sound in the dense quiet of the destroyed room. He turned slowly, stumbling out of the room and bracing a hand on the wall. He felt empty, his mind a familiar and comforting blank. He made his way out of the vault, stepping over the bodies of Hydra. He exited the door to find the cat still curled up on his raincoat, greeting him with a soft meow. He dislodged the cat gently, slipping the raincoat back on. The cat looked up at him with a pitiful expression. Without knowing why, he unzipped his duffle bag, picking the cat up and depositing it on top of the extra clothing. He left the bag partway zipped so the cat could breathe, hefting it carefully with his metal arm. 

He set off into the gathering dusk, not knowing exactly where he was going. Part of him wanted someone to tell him what to do. He had never in his memory had to fend for himself or make decisions. He had always been told what to do and his needs seen to. It was terrifying to be on his own, defying the only people he'd ever known.  _But I knew him,_ his mind screamed. Somewhere deep inside he knew it was true. He had known the man-Ste-Captain America, and Hydra had stolen it from him. The fact wormed its way into the soldier's brain, taking root. He became surer with every step he took. He knew him. He had been this person, this James Buchanan Barnes. And Hydra had stolen it from him. They had stolen everything from him.

He found an abandoned building to hide in, crouching in the corner where he had good sight lines to the door. He ate a few MREs, the taste like ash in his mouth. He broke off a few pieces and put them in front of the cat, who sniffed them before eating them ravenously. It was probably too hungry to care. He drank the water gratefully, realizing how thirsty he was. It helped rinse the taste of the Potomac and the MREs out of his mouth.

Exhaustion threatened to pull him under, his eyelids drooping. He blinked sharply, forcing himself awake. He would never let himself sleep in such a vulnerable position. Besides, he had gone much longer without sleep.  _His mind felt muddled and hazy with sleep-deprivation, his exhaustion painful in its need. But flashing lights blinded him, shocks dragging him back into wakefulness whenever his eyes threatened to close. 'Please,' he mumbled. He just wanted to sleep, why wouldn't they let him-_ he pulled out of the memory with a gasp, heart racing. A soft mew and a tap on his stomach drew his attention. The cat was looking up at him as it tapped him softly, its head cocked to the side. He placed a trembling hand-his hands never trembled-on its head, stroking the soft fur. The cat melted under his touch, climbing to curl up on his crossed legs. He was wide awake now, the memory too vivid to allow him to sleep.

He spent the night that way, sitting watchfully in the corner with the cat curled on his lap. When morning came he ate another MRE, drank some more water, his head fuzzy with exhaustion but arm healing. Finally he got up, concealing as many knives as he could on his person. When he was satisfied he pocketed a wad of cash, slipping through the door. He closed it abruptly before the cat could get out. It wouldn't do to have it following him everywhere.

He set off down the street, making sure his gloves were secure and the sleeve of the rain jacket pulled down all the way to cover the arm. He stopped at the first thrift store he found, the bell announcing his entrance with a hollow jangle. He tensed, looking around, but there was only a bored employee reading a magazine behind the desk and a few people scanning the aisles. First he used the restroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. Then he quickly selected a pair of jeans, a few t-shirts, a flannel shirt, and a jacket. He also picked up a small bowl for the cat's water on impluse. He snagged a plain ball cap from the rack as he passed, heading towards the register. The cashier rang him up with practiced motions, not even looking up. He paid for his purchases and quickly exited the store, shoving the cap on his head.

A small poster across the way caught his eye. Captain America stared out from it in all his patriotic glory, the white star of his uniform front and center.  _Captain America Exhibit, Smithsonian, Air and Space Museum,_ the poster read. The soldier tucked that information away, turning from the image that made his head pound and heart race. He continued down the street until he found a small grocery store. Ducking inside, he snagged canned chicken from the shelf, gaining a raised eyebrow from the cashier at his lone purchase. His insides were twisting with anxiety by the time he was done, ducking his head to conceal his face under the cap and tugging nervously on the material covering the metal hand. He rushed back down the street, making a loop around to make sure he wasn't followed.

When he reached the building he scouted all around to make sure no one was there before finally opening the door cautiously, hand on a knife under his jacket. An indignant meow met his ears and he looked down to see the cat winding around his ankles. He finally relaxed, taking his hand off the knife. He pushed into the room, closing the door behind him and setting his shopping bag down in the corner. Taking out the bowl he had bought he poured water from his water bottle into it, setting it down next to the cat. Then he opened the can of chicken, throwing a chunk in its direction. The cat eagerly devoured it, nearly choking in its haste. It licked its lips, looking at the soldier expectantly.

"No more right now," he said gruffly. "Don't want you throwing it up again." He had a flash of memory, a blonde boy bent over a toilet as he rubbed circles on his back. His eyes widened, breath held in shock. He didn't know who the blonde boy was, but there was something familiar about that golden hair, that thin frame...

He pinched the bridge of his nose, a pounding headache erupting behind his eyes. He felt off-balance and anxious, unknown emotion tying his stomach in knots and his head a jumbled mess of thoughts and images. He went back to his corner, sinking down and drawing his knees up. He rested his forearms on the tops of his knees, a knife clenched in his left fist as he watched the door. The cat finished drinking from the bowl and wandered over, pushing itself between his knees and chest before settling contentedly in the narrow gap. His hand found its dark fur automatically, petting in long strokes. The room grew dark and soon he found his head nodding, eyes heavy with sleep. 

_He was clinging to the railing, the wind whipping at his face. A man appeared, tossing his helmet aside as he maneuvered along the torn train. "Grab my hand!" he yelled. He-Buc-the soldier reached, but the railing gave way. He screamed as he fell, the man's face getting smaller and smaller as he fell down, down, down-_

He awoke with a start, gasping for air. He was shaking, sweat trickling down his forehead and heart racing as his head pounded. The cat, dislodged by his sudden motion, let out an annoyed yowl. He jerked at the sound, clutching his knife. Then he realized it was just the cat and relaxed fractionally, trying to calm his racing heart. He tried to breathe steadily, calling on his training. When he had achieved stillness again the cat crawled back into his lap, immediately dropping off to sleep. But the soldier sat awake the rest of the night, determined not to fall asleep again. 

The next morning he repeated his routine, putting on the new clothes he had bought. He wore jeans tucked into his combat boots, a t-shirt covered by a flannel and a jacket, and a cap on his head. He filled the cat's water bowl, shutting it in the room again. He made another trip to the grocery store, first using their restroom. Some distant part of him said he should bathe, but that only brought images of cold jets of water and his head held under water. He pushed the thought away quickly. He glanced up as he washed his hands, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked exhausted, purple bags under haunted eyes and skin sallow over hollowed cheeks. A light scruff was growing on his face, covering his chin and cheeks with coarse hair. His long hair hung in lank strands under the cap, greasy with sweat. Some part of him felt disgusted by his appearance, while the other didn't care. He hadn't been trained to care about his appearance. Still, if he wanted to blend in...

He took off the cap, setting it on the counter. Tentatively, he turned on the tap and cupped his hand under it before bending down to rake it through his hair. Water droplets slid down his face and he shuddered, trying to suppress the memories that threatened to break through. Gritting his teeth, he continued to run water through his hair and even splash some on his face until he felt moderately cleaner. Drying his hands, he put the cap back on and exited the restroom, heading towards the meat aisle. He bought two more cans of chicken before making the long way back to the building, doubling back every so often and scouting the perimeter. When he got inside he fed the cat from the already opened can, storing the two new ones in the duffel. The cat scarfed down the chicken with gusto, licking its lips after it was done.

The soldier sat for a minute before making a decision. His dream last night had solidified the notion that he had known Captain America, but he needed to find out more about who this man was and how he knew him. He had seen the poster for the Captain America exhibit the day before and felt a tug telling him to go there. He had to know. He stood up, moving to the door. The cat followed his motion with its eyes, cocking its head. The soldier felt the irrational urge to reassure it.

"I'll be back," he said hoarsely. The cat blinked at him.

He closed the door behind him, stepping out into the midday sunshine. He walked to where he had seen the poster before, then kept going. After much walking and following signs he finally found the museum, a large version of the poster outside. Only pausing for a second he continued into the museum, the dim light welcoming to his aching head. _"Welcome back, Cap,"_ the first wall proclaimed. Underneath it, a description.  _Too scrawny and frail to enlist in the U.S. Military during World War I, Steve Rogers volunteered to receive the experimental Super-Soldier Serum..._

_Steve._ The name resounded in his head.  _Little Stevie Rogers.._ he grimaced, pain shooting through his head. He moved on. Past the entrance a large mural of Captain Am-Steve adorned the wall, his right hand raised in a stoic salute. A voiceover crackled through the speakers as he walked past. " _The story of Captain America is one of honor, bravery, and sacrifice._ He stopped in front of a picture of Cap-Steve smaller contrasted with his larger self. He had another flash of blonde hair and a thin frame, fists raised...

_Denied enlistment due to poor health,_ the voiceover continued,  _Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare. One that would transform him into the world's first super soldier._ Large images of a small Steve were superimposed onto his bigger self, his chin jutted out in a somehow familiar way.

_"I thought you were dead."_ _Strong arms helping him off the table._

_"I thought you were smaller."_

Had he known this smaller Steve? He forged ahead, turning to the next section. A huge display filled the room, seven mannequins in various garb, a replica of Captain America's suit in the front. The figures pulled at him with a sense of familiarity, his gaze turning to the blue-coated figure to Captain America's left.  _Battle tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandoes quickly earned their stripes,_ the voice said.  _Their mission: Taking down Hydra, the Nazi rogue science division._

He reeled. Hydra? So Steve had been fighting them all along, and if he was Steve's friend...it made his head spin. He turned, suddenly seeing a face eerily similar to the one that had stared back at him in the mirror that morning. The face on the display was slightly younger, his face softer. His hair was short and styled, and he gazed at the camera neutrally. "James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes," the display proclaimed. The soldier stared, an uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach.  _Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country._

He felt like someone had punched right through his middle, leaving a gaping hole. He had never been Hydra. He thought of his dream and the train and falling. Somehow they had found him and made him into this. They had stolen his life, his identity, his memories. They had stolen Steve; made him try to kill his friend. He felt a helpless rage rise up in him, swallowing hard as he stared at the display. Videos flashed on the nearby screen, he and Steve laughing over some shared joke. They looked...happy. The soldier didn't remember how to laugh. Whoever he had been, the soldier wasn't sure he was that person anymore. Hydra had ripped Bucky apart and out of the the wreckage created the soldier. Whatever Steve was looking for, he wouldn't find it.  _That's a lie,_ his mind whispered.  _You knew him._

He tried to order his swirling thoughts. His read Bucky-his history on the display, finding nothing he remembered except a flash at the mention of his capture. Steve pulling him off the table where he had been...he only caught flashes of a face with round glasses that sparked terror in his chest.  _The procedure has already started...you will be the new fist of Hydra.._ had that been then? Or was that later? He couldn't place the intrusive flashes, frustration gnawing at him. He had also had a family, apparently. Four siblings. Were they still alive? It said he was born in 1917. He knew it was 2014, which would make him 97 years old. Physically, though, he probably hadn't aged more than a few years. They only took him out of cryo a few times over the decades, and never for more than a few days or a week at a time. He strained his memory, but he couldn't remember what had happened when they first had him. How long had it taken them to strip Bucky away?

He turned away, not wanting to see any more. His head was throbbing, spikes of pain behind his eyes and an ache in his temples. He hurried away, winding down the streets towards the building. When he finally got there he almost collapsed into his corner, pressing his hands to his head as he curled on his side. The cat gave a small mew, snuggling up in the curve of his stomach. It was like the museum had shaken something loose, and the pain in his head reached a dizzying crescendo as fragments of memories flashed in his mind. He lay there for what felt like hours, clutching his head and riding out the wave of pain. Finally he dropped off into a fitful sleep, too tired to resist. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_He trailed after Steve as they walked up the steps, Steve's narrow shoulders hunched with grief._

_"How was it?" Bucky asked._

_"It's okay. She's next to Dad." Steve replied glumly._

_Bucky puffed out a breath. "I was gonna ask-"_

_"I know what you're gonna say Buck."_

_"We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fine-all you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash."_

_Steve was patting his chest, looking for his key. Bucky turned around, bending down to retrieve it from under the brick. He held it out to Steve._

_"Come on."_

_Steve took the key, looking resolute._ _"Thank you Buck, but I can get by on my own."_

_Bucky sighed. "The thing is, you don't have to." He gripped Steve's shoulder, looking him in the eye. "I"m with ya till the end of the line, pal."_

_Steve glanced down before huffing a breath and looking up at Bucky, a smile on his face._

The dream dissolved, Bucky waking up slowly. He was curled on his side with his back to the wall, the cat a small lump against his stomach. He suddenly blinked back tears as the memory registered.  _Because I'm with you, till the end of the line._  Steve's face, bloody and bruised, superimposed on a smaller version. His right hand resting on Steve's shoulder, human and fragile. They fist  _they_ had made punching Steve, over and over, a reflection of what they had made him into. Then those words. Steve's gaze, steady and reassuring. Forgiving. And the sudden horror that had swept over him like a wave, looking down at  _Steve's_ bloody face, his suddenly familiar blonde hair and blue eyes that met his unflinchingly.  _I'm with you till the end of the line._ It sent a shard of ice through his heart, of pain and guilt, although he didn't know why at the time, just that he was supposed to _protect_. Now he knew why, and the knowing hurt.

These thoughts whirled around his brain as he lay on the ground, trying to adjust to this new revelation. He felt different, something slotted into place in his brain. He was still missing most of his memories, but it was like a damn had been broken. He knew things without knowing how he knew them, felt things he hadn't known he could. Although he only had snippets of memories with Steve, he felt a familiarity there that was beyond words. For a moment, he almost thought he could be Bucky.

He sat up, pondering this. He was getting used to the idea that he was a person, not a weapon. And people had names. He didn't quite feel like Bucky, not yet. He repeated his old name silently. James Buchanan Barnes. James felt alright, less fragile and loaded with meaning. 

"James," he said aloud. "My name is James." 

The cat blinked up at him from where it had been awakened. He had a sudden inspiration.

"You need a name too," he said. 

Picking the cat up, he determined that it was female. He thought for a minute, trying to come up with a name. He had never named anything before in his limited memories, the very idea of having that much choice thrilling yet daunting.

He had kind of grown attached to calling her "the cat" in his mind. He suddenly knew what he wanted to name her.

"Koshka," he said. Russian for female cat. She looked up at him, giving an approving mew. He nodded. "Your name is Koshka."

This small act of choosing both names left him exhilarated yet filled with anxiety, expecting a punishment for daring to exercise his autonomy. When no punishment came, Koshka blinking up at him steadily, he relaxed a bit. Standing up, he refilled Koshka's water dish and gave her some more chicken, feeling an impatient tug under his sternum. It was time to leave. He thought of the dream he had had, of tall buildings and narrow streets. Brooklyn, his mind supplied. That was what the museum had said. It sparked a sense of familiarity. Whoever he'd been, Brooklyn had been his home. Maybe going back would trigger more memories.

He packed his meager belongings, cramming his cap back on his head and stuffing a wad of cash into his pocket. When Koshka was done eating he emptied and packed her water dish before placing her back in the duffel. With a final look around the room, he turned and left, no sign that he had ever been there besides an empty can of chicken and several plastic water bottles. 

He walked until he came to a bus stop, empty in the early morning light except for a ticket window holding a lone employee. A schedule was pasted to the wall, times and destinations listed in varying stripes of color. Reading the schedule, he saw he only had a few minutes to wait for a bus to Baltimore. He approached the ticket window, the employee looking up.

"Where ya headed?" he asked tiredly.

"Baltimore," he replied, keeping his head down and posture relaxed.

"The 7:00?"

James nodded.

"Alright, that'll be nine dollars."

James reached in his pocket and pulled out a ten, sliding it through the slot at the bottom of the window. The employee fished in the register for a one as a ticket printed. He slid the dollar back with a ticket stub, his eyes flicking to James' gloved hand. 

"Have a nice day," he said in a monotone, turning back to his computer. James settled on a bench to wait, eyes darting around the station warily.

Soon the bus pulled up, brakes squealing as it came to a stop. The doors opened with a thunk, the driver peering down. James climbed the steps until he was level with the driver, withdrawing his ticket. The driver took it with a grunt, waving him on. He made his way to the back of the bus, where he had good sight lines. The bus was nearly empty, its only occupants asleep against the windows. He sat down in the last seat across from the bathroom, gently setting the duffel beside him. He unzipped it halfway, a furry head poking out. Koshka clambered out of the bag and onto his lap, curling up in contentment. The bus started with a lurch, its low rumbling a steady rhythm as he stroked Koshka's dark fur absentmindedly. The hour and a half passed quickly, James lost in thought and Koshka undisturbed except for when he got up to use the bathroom. He tamed his hair as best he could in the mirror, adjusting his cap so his hair was away from his face.

When he disembarked, he immediately got a ticket for the 9:00 bus headed to Philadelphia. In a half hour he was aboard, once more moving to the back of the bus. This trip took three hours, but James was used to being patient. He had once held still and silent for 24 hours in one position while scoping a target, waiting for the perfect shot. His training had been rigorous and thorough. He focused on scanning the inside and outside of the more crowded bus for threats, Koshka a steady weight across his thighs.

Finally, it was time for the last leg of the journey. He boarded a 12:30 bus to the city, his anxiety starting to build the closer he got. By the time the two and a half hour trip was over, he could hardly make himself get off. He was immediately overwhelmed by the flashing billboards and towering skyscrapers of Midtown, hundreds of people moving like ants throughout the city and car horns blaring. The sound grated on his ears, the sheer number of people making his heart race and palm sweat. He steeled himself, reminding himself that he was a trained assassin. It didn't help. He snagged a map from a passing vendor, trying to move with the crushing flow of people. His senses were on overdrive, trying to pinpoint a million threats in the throng of people. He focused on the map, finding the small words proclaiming 'Brooklyn.' He quickly memorized the way there, slipping the map into a garbage can as he passed. He tried to keep his duffel shielded as he walked, mindful of the cat inside as well as all his supplies. In under two hours, he was coming to the Brooklyn Bridge. The late afternoon sunlight glinted off the water as he walked over, the sky blue and cloudless. He took a deep breath and stopped at the apex, looking across to where Brooklyn gleamed, bright and beautiful. He felt a tug of familiarity in his gut, a sense of rightness. He had been here before.

Suddenly he had another flash, of standing on the Bridge as Hydra agents closed in, a tranquilizer dart sinking into his neck. The flash disappeared just as fast, leaving him clinging to the railing. It creaked ominously, starting to bend under the force of his grip. He relaxed his grip, releasing a breath. Several people walking by gave him strange looks and he ducked his head, trying to compose himself. So he had somehow escaped before and come back here. Brooklyn was like a beacon, calling to him with a siren's song. Calling him home. 

He kept walking, Brooklyn getting closer and closer. Finally he was across the bridge, and in Brooklyn. He followed sense memory, allowing his feet to take him on instinct. He ended up in Brooklyn Heights, the nice apartments seeming out of place. He didn't recognize anything, unsure if it was because it had changed or simply because he couldn't remember. He kept moving, looking for somewhere he would blend in and avoid any Hydra remnants looking for him. He traveled until he came across a run-down neighborhood, crumbling brick apartments lining the street. He found an apartment building with an "apartment for rent" sign outside, a three story brick building that had seen better days. Ivy crawled over the brick, twisted iron railings hanging off fire escapes. 

An hour later he was closing his new apartment door behind him, the rays of the setting sun streaming through the dingy window. He had paid the gruff landlord in cash, no questions asked in a place like this. His apartment, 3A, was on the third floor, fire escapes allowing for an easy exit and the vantage point perfect for spotting incoming danger on the street. He had the corner apartment closest to the stairwell, two other apartments to his left and three across the hall. The apartment consisted of a small living area just inside the door that stretched to the window, a kitchen to the left. A small hallway on the right led to a bedroom and bathroom. The only furniture was a moth-eaten brown couch in the living room, a small table and chairs in the kitchen, and a lumpy mattress on the floor of the bedroom. The small, run-down apartment felt right in some regards, but almost too big and opulent. He had flashes of a one-room apartment, tub doubling as a table and toilet crammed in a closet.

James set the duffel on the floor of the bedroom, Koshka jumping out as soon as he unzipped it. She shook herself before sitting down and washing a paw indignantly. She had been stuffed in the duffel the whole afternoon, getting jostled and bumped. He sighed, picking her up with his right arm and moving to the living room window. He opened it, setting Koshka on the fire escape. She sniffed around cautiously before looking back at him and meowing. He crawled through the window after her, picking her up again. He made the long trek down the stairs until he was on the ground and then set her down, crossing his arms.

"You are not going in the apartment," he said firmly. "You do your business outside, understand?"

Koshka blinked at him, yellow eyes gleaming in the dim light. He set back up the stairs, not looking back. He left the window open, hoping that the cat would figure out how to get back up. And if it wanted to leave, he wouldn't stop it. It was probably better off without him anyway. But a small part inside him had grown attached to the cat and he kept glancing at the window anxiously, hoping to see Koshka. Finally, a black form slipped back through the window, coming to rub against his legs. He let out a sigh of relief, bending down to run a hand down Koshka's back as she arched, tail in the air. He closed and locked the window for the night, returning to the bedroom. Another MRE was washed down with water, his stash getting dangerously low. Koshka's water dish went in the kitchen, more canned chicken meted out for her to eat. When he was done he laid down on the lumpy mattress, far softer than anything he could remember, and was asleep within moments, exhaustion pulling at his limbs.


	3. Chapter 3

_Blood stained the white snow in crimson paths, his left arm a bloody stump as they dragged him..._

_He was on a table, and hands were holding him down, Russian voices grating on his ears as he struggled, weak from blood loss. They strapped him down, white lab coats swarming around. Needles flashed before his eyes. There was a buzzing and he watched as they sawed through the rest of his arm, his screams echoing in the cold room..._

_A familiar face was swimming in front of his eyes, round glasses and a leering smile over a red bowtie. 'Sergeant Barnes...'_

_His vision was blurring, lying on the table with a strange sensation on his left side. He raised his left arm to find it made of metal, gleaming silver and unnatural. Rage and horror shot through him, latching on to the throat of the closest doctor. He felt the new arm crush his throat before a needle was jabbed into this thigh, the world going dark..._

_He was sitting in the corner of a cramped cell, huddled against the cold cement. The cell door slid open, a figure approaching. He pressed against the wall, glaring at the figure with all his strength. 'I will never serve Hydra,' he spit. The man laughed. 'You will not have a choice.' Guards filed into the cell, grabbing his arms. He fought, but they shoved a stun baton into his ribs as they dragged him away..._

_He was suffocating. He was strapped down, a cloth over his face as they poured water over it and he couldn't breath as he struggled against his bonds and he just wanted it to stop and he couldn't breathe..._

_The baton came down with a crack. Failure, it said. It came down again, a rib snapping. He curled up on the floor as the blows rained down, wishing he could just die._

_His world consisted of pain. There was nothing else, the agony all-consuming. His screams had long ago faded away into garbled moans, his throat raw. Blood stained the table he was strapped to, shocks coursing through his body. He retreated into his mind, eyes glassy and unblinking..._

_They showed him the newspaper. 'Captain America Presumed Dead: Brings Down Hydra Plane in Arctic.' He felt coldness creep into his bones. 'No,' he croaked. 'You're lying.' But deep down he knew it was true. He broke, the last pieces of his resistance shattering and the agents smiled but he didn't care, nothing mattered anymore..._

_He was in a small cylinder. He raised the metal hand to the glass window, seeing his reflection as it frosted over and everything went cold and dark..._

_They dragged him along the hallway, his body limp and weak..._

_He was in the chair, blood filling his mouth as he bit through his tongue, his mind being torn apart..._

James woke up abruptly, a scream dying in his throat as he launched himself off the mattress and into the corner of the room, clutching his knife. His breath came in ragged gasps, body trembling and sweat dripping down his back. He pressed against the wall, looking wildly around the room as the images from his dream started to fade. He took in the small bedroom, Koshka staring at him wide-eyed from the mattress with fur puffed up. He drew in deep lungfuls of air, trying to slow his breathing as his heart pounded and periodic shivers started racing up and down his body. After a minute, Koshka got over her fright and came padding towards where he crouched in the corner, tapping him on the knee with a soft paw. He slowly slumped until he was sitting, leaning back against the wall and drawing his knees up. Koshka insinuated herself onto his lap, claws digging into his thighs. The pinpricks of pain grounded him, and he switched the knife to his metal hand before placing his trembling right hand on her back. Shivers racked his body every so often, his mind feeling fuzzy and numb as he stared ahead unblinkingly. Only the sensation of Koshka's claws on his legs and her solid warmth under his hand kept him semi-attached to reality, his mind wanting to go blank; back in its safe place far away from everything.

He sat there for minutes or maybe hours, until the numbness started to lift. Sensation came back in a rush, James blinking as he came into awareness. He was suddenly aware that he was on the floor in the corner, sticky with sweat. Koshka was purring, the vibrations pulsing through his legs. His metal hand was resting on the floor next to him, gripping a knife. He felt the roughness of the wall pressing into his back, his bottom aching from sitting on the hard floor. He could smell the overpowering scent of sweat, his shirt sticking to his back and strands of hair dripping against his neck.

He picked up Koshka with his right hand, depositing her on the floor. He stood up gingerly, clinging to the wall for support as his muscles protested. He staggered to the bathroom, grabbing the edges of the sink as he stood there with his head bowed, collecting himself. He turned on the sink with an only slightly trembling hand, splashing water on his face. Suddenly his dream came back to him, water being poured over his face and he reeled, stumbling back. He stood there breathing heavily, the sink still running. Finally he stretched forward with one hand, turning it off quickly before withdrawing. He still felt gross and sweaty, the feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

He turned towards the shower, considering. Maybe if he kept his face away it wouldn't be so bad. He turned the handle, running a hand experimentally under the gentle spray. Instead of the cold jets he remembered from being hosed down, this was warm and light. He twisted the handle more until it almost burned his skin. Stripping off his sweat-soaked clothes he ducked under the spray, making sure to face away from it. The hot water beat down on his back, soothing the tensed muscles there. He almost groaned aloud at the sensation. He didn't have any memory of hot showers, but this was a revelation. He stood under the spray for a long time, eyes closed and head tipped back slightly. When the water started to get colder he shut it off, stepping out into the bathroom. He suddenly had an image of a bar of soap, lathering himself up in a small porcelain tub.  _Soap,_ he thought.  _How could I forget soap?_ He resolved to get some, along with something to dry himself off. _Towels,_ the word came. For now, although he didn't have soap he felt cleaner and refreshed, the coldness that had settled into his core alleviated by the hot shower. He felt...human.

He pulled on his jeans and a new t-shirt from the duffel, layering with the flannel and jacket. His wet hair hung in his face, beads of water dripping down his neck and soaking his shirt. He squeezed as much water as he could out with his flesh hand, noting the tangles in the long strands. He tried to work his fingers through his hair, yanking when they got stuck. Eventually he could run them through without much difficulty, his hair drying in fluffy strands against his face. He shoved it back, placing the cap on his head. More money from the duffel was shoved in his pocket, gloves secured over flesh and metal hands. Satisfied, he went into the main room, opening the window halfway. Koshka jumped up, trotting onto the fire escape. He closed the window behind her, making sure it was latched.

"I'll be back," he said to Koshka's form on the other side of the glass. She flicked her tail lazily in answer.

He exited the apartment, locking the door behind him. Directly across the hall a young woman was doing the same thing, long black hair done in tiny intricate braids that cascaded down her back. She turned around, catching sight of him. Her eyes widened in surprise, flicking to the door behind him before she relaxed, sticking out a hand. 

"Hi, you must be the new tenant in 3A. I'm Imani. What's your name?"

He shook her hand tentatively, withdrawing it quickly. "James," he said gruffly. He felt uneasy, her close presence making his body tense. His eyes darted to the stairwell, scoping out his exits.  

Warm brown eyes surveyed him, taking in the gloves. "Nice to meet you, James. Me an' my girlfriend Maria live in 3D right here. You're always welcome to knock on our door if you need anything." She smiled, teeth white against her dark skin, gold hoop earrings catching the light.

James shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to do. He didn't remember people ever offering to do things for him. He dragged the proper response up from the depths of his muddled memory, the word unfamiliar and stilted on his lips. "Thank you."

She shot him another smile, turning towards the stairs. "Are you going this way as well?"

He nodded silently. He waited for her to walk first, not wanting to turn his back to her, then followed her down the stairs. She looked back as they descended the two floors, the stairs creaking underfoot.

"So, where you from?"

He hesitated. "Brooklyn. But I've been away a while."

She grinned. "A true Brooklynite! No matter what, Brooklyn is always home."

He swallowed. "Yeah."

They reached the bottom, pushing through the entrance and into the midmorning sunlight. Imani squinted, raising her hand over her eyes to block the glare. 

"So, where ya headed?"

He shrugged, keeping his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. "The store. I guess."

She raised an eyebrow. "You guess? Do you actually know where the store is?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "No."

She rolled her eyes, gesturing with a hand to follow her. "Come on. I'm going there anyway. I'll show you where it is."

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, scanning her expression for falsehood. Why would she do that? What did she gain from it? Her face remained open, no trace of ulterior motive. But Hydra agents knew how to blend in. He mentally cataloged the weapons on his body. A knife in each boot, a switchblade tucked into the waistband of his jeans, his metal arm. Finally he nodded warily. "Okay."

She led the way, James next to her but just a step behind so he could watch her every move. It didn't seem to bother her, simply turning her head to speak to him. She chattered endlessly as they walked, telling him everything about her life. Apparently she was an artist while her girlfriend Maria worked at a bakery. They were both twenty-five and had been living on their own for years, their parents kicking them out when they were teenagers for being gay. She looked over sharply when she said this as if to gauge his reaction, but he had none. He didn't have opinions.

"Anyway, we met at a shelter for LGBT youth and have been inseparable since. She's the love of my life." A soft smile stole over her face.

James thought of the word. Inseparable _. Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield._ Was that what love was?

"What about you? Your story. You were in the military, right?"

James stopped, hand reaching for his blade. "How did you know that?" he said, tone dangerously low.

She raised both hands in a placating gesture. "Relax. I could tell by the way you carry yourself. Eyes always searching for escape routes, military posture and build. I've known a few vets over the years. You look like you've seen some shit."

He relaxed fractionally, hand going back to his pocket as he nodded mutely. Imani looked sympathetic.

"Alright, I won't press. But if you ever need anything, just say the word." They kept walking, a comfortable silence falling as the store came into sight. It was a small run-down grocery store, part of the neon sign reading "Gary's Grocery and Miscellaneous" flickering, making it read "Gary's rocery and iscellaneous." The automatic doors opened with a hiss as they approached, the rattle of grocery carts and the beeps of checkout scanners meeting their ears. 

"Here we are," Imani proclaimed. "Your one-stop-shop for all your basic needs. Deli is to the left, frozen foods in the back, and the central aisles have everything else. Grab a cart and I'll meet you back out front when you're done."

She grabbed a cart from the array right inside the door, James following her lead. He headed to the right, intending to make a loop around the small store. Fresh produce greeted him first, piles of colorful vegetables in cold shelves lining the wall and others stacked on small tables scattered throughout the section. The sheer abundance overwhelmed him, having no memory of this much food so readily available. He didn't know what he would do with any of it and so moved on, coming to the dairy aisle. He had a flash of the inside of an expensive house, a mocking voice asking "want some milk?"

He shuddered, moving on. He turned into the first center aisle, filled with chips. The next turned out to be more fruitful, filled with all different kinds of cereal. He thought he remembered oatmeal and grabbed some, putting it in the cart. He had either been fed intravenously or eaten MREs for the last seventy years, and had no idea what he was supposed to eat. He had a vague sense of what food was but couldn't remember eating it, or what exactly his body needed. Hydra had made him dependent on them for everything, and now he was helpless. Suddenly he felt a surge of determination. He would figure out how to survive, proving that Hydra couldn't control him. Pressing his lips in a thin line, he snatched a few cereal boxes at random, dumping them into the cart. He moved through the next aisles with a vengeance, picking easy to eat food items at random. He got soap and something called shampoo and conditioner from the beauty aisle, also picking up a safety razor, which he remembered from Hydra, although it wasn't pleasant. He pushed the thought away, determined to win. He selected two soft, fluffy towels, marveling at the texture. He found cans and bags of something labeled cat food, immediately thinking of Koshka. He got two kinds of canned and two kinds of dry food, hoping she would eat it. There was even a small clothing aisle in the store, and he got a package of something called "boxer briefs" that resembled his own, two long-sleeved shirts, and soft grey pants that captured his attention.

When he had piled everything he could fit into his cart, he made his way to the checkout. The cashier gave him a suspicious once-over, scanning his items with a practiced hand. He paid with the Hydra cash, almost using all he had brought. The large wad of cash and gloves earned him another suspicious look, but the cashier said nothing, handing him his receipt with an unemotional "Have a nice day."

He hefted the many bags between his two arms, the left one taking the brunt of the weight. He could feel his shoulder protesting where the metal pulled unevenly at his left side but ignored it, used to the pain caused by the appendage. Imani waved from the doors as he approached, a couple bags swinging from her hand.

She eyed his multiple bags. "Wow, you got a lot. Sure you can carry that back?"

He nodded.

She whistled. "Damn you're strong. I may have to borrow you when Maria and I can't get the tops off of things."

He didn't understand what she meant but nodded again, not wanting to question. They walked back together, Imani rattling off a story about an irate customer at the bakery where Maria worked. James tried to follow but quickly got lost, not understanding many of the things she said. He simply nodded when she paused, appearing interested. When they reached the apartment complex she paused, extending a hand.

"Here, at let me carry some of those bags up the stairs. You've been carrying them all this way; you must be tired."

He complied with the order automatically before he could think, handing her two bags. She marched up the stairs in front of him, long hair swinging and breaths audible as they reached the third floor. He didn't feel any strain from the trek, his breathing even and pulse level. Imani turned around when they came to their respective doors, holding out the bags again. He took them wordlessly, waiting for her to make the first move into her apartment. She unlocked her door but then paused, turning around.

"Hey, do you want to come over and have dinner with Maria and I? I don't know if you have plans or want to get settled or whatever but I'd love for you to meet her. We're gonna be neighbors, after all."

He blinked in surprise. Was this a ploy to gain his trust? Was Hydra going to ambush him in her apartment? He contemplated, weighing the facts. Her life story seemed true, and she had plenty of time to have Hydra ambush him when they were alone on the street. He had no idea why she was going out of her way to do things for him, but some instinct said it would be rude to decline.

He nodded. "Okay."

She grinned. "Great! Come over at 6:00; we're having pasta, nothing fancy."

With that she turned, entering her apartment. When her door closed James unlocked his own, setting down the bags in the entryway before locking it behind him. He began unloading the bags, storing the food items in different places in the kitchen. The oatmeal and cereals went into one cupboard, granola bars in another. Various cans of soup and chicken he had grabbed were stacked next to the granola bars, James nodding in satisfaction when he was done. He set two loaves of bread on the counter, a jar of peanut butter next to them. 

Finished with the food items, he moved to his other purchases. He stacked his new clothing in the corner of his room and placed the new soaps, razor, and towels in the bathroom. He put the cat food on the kitchen counter above Koshka's water dish, remembering that he had left her outside. He crossed the room and opened the window, Koshka already waiting. She greeted him with a meow, jumping down from the window to wind around his legs. He left the window cracked now that he was home so she could come and go as she wished. The stove clock read 1:00 in red numbers. Five hours until dinner. He went back to the bedroom, getting his weapons out of the duffel. He stripped and cleaned the guns, polishing the knives as best he could. The repetitive motion soothed him, hours flying by as he disassembled and assembled his weapons over and over.

Finally, around 5:00 he showered, following the directions on his new soaps. His body felt clean for the first time in a while, his hair soft and shiny. He wrapped the fluffy towel around him, padding into the bedroom. He put on his new underwear, jeans, and a red long-sleeved shirt, finger-combing his hair until it lay straight. A single glove went on the metal hand, the sleeve of his shirt securely tucked into it. The image in the mirror looked different than the one before. His hair was neat and clean, his face covered by a short scruff. While there were still bags under his eyes and his cheeks were too hollow his skin was free of sweat and grime. The slate-blue eyes that stared back at him were haunted, their depths glittering with untold horrors. He turned away abruptly, not wanting to see his face any more. 

At 6:00 exactly he was standing outside the door to apartment 3D, a hand poised to knock on half-remembered instinct. He hesitated for a moment before rapping his knuckles gently against the wood, anxiety fluttering in his stomach. The door opened. 


	4. Chapter 4

The door swung open, revealing Imani behind it. She smiled at James, giving him a once over.

"Look at you. You clean up well. Come on in." She ushered him in, closing the door behind them. The apartment looked like a mirror of James' but with much more personality. Bright rugs covered the floor, a tv opposite a squashy green couch with a worn coffee table in front of it. Paintings littered the walls, various shelves filled knickknacks and books. A heavenly smell was coming from the kitchen to the right, the sound of clinking dishes and boiling water meeting permeating the apartment. A woman emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel as she smiled warmly. Her olive skin contrasted with short dark hair, the sleeves of her blue button up rolled to her elbows. She finished drying her hands and turned to James, extending a hand.

"Hi, I'm Maria. You must be James." A slight accent marked her speech, the 'r' of her name sounding more like a 'd'.

He nodded, shaking her hand. She looked him up and down before tutting, a small frown pinching her forehead.

"What have you been eating? You are far too skinny! Not to worry, we'll fix you right up. You are in casa Hernández now." She waved him over to the table, where three places had been set, two on one side and one on the other. A bowl of salad and some sort of bread already sat on the table, with various condiments and dressings clustered at one end. "Sit, sit! The pasta will be ready soon." With that she bustled back to the kitchen, leaving James bewildered.

Imani laughed as she sat down on one side, James taking the other. "Sorry, she's a bit of a mother hen. I think you've just become her next project." She chuckled, eyes crinkling. James didn't know how to feel about this information.

Maria came back out with a steaming bowl of pasta in her hands, setting it down on the table. She took a seat next to Imani, reaching for the salad bowl.

"So, James, you're in 3A right?" She piled salad onto her plate, passing it to Imani.

He nodded, taking the bowl when Imani passed it to him and copying their motions. 

"When did you move in?" He watched carefully as she poured white dressing labeled 'Caesar' on the greens, topping it with some sort of white powdery substance and small cubes of bread.

"Last night," he replied, watching Imani repeat the procedure before doing it himself. On closer inspection the powdery substance was labeled as some sort of cheese.

"Ah, that's why I didn't know anyone had moved in until Imani told me about the mysterious guy she met this morning." Her eyes twinkled, shoving a bite of the salad into her mouth. Imani gave her shoulder a soft shove.

Unsure how or if to reply, James took a bite of salad, eyes widening at the unexpected flavor. He had no memory of eating salad, but this went in the positive column. The texture of the 'parmesan cheese' and the crunch of the croutons added to the experience, his mouth bursting with sensation.

"So James, Imani says you're originally from Brooklyn?" Maria asked.

He nodded, taking another large bite of the salad. Maria seemed to wait for him to elaborate, brow creasing when he didn't.

"What part of Brooklyn? Imani and I have always lived in Red Hook." They smiled at each other.

He shifted uneasily. He didn't actually know for sure, the infographic on his life only mentioning Brooklyn and the city too unfamiliar to spark memory. He swallowed nervously, hand stilling on his fork as he looked down. "I don't remember," he said quietly.

There was a beat of silence, then- "You don't remember?" Imani was staring at him curiously.

Maria's brow was scrunched in confusion, head cocked to the side. "You mean, like, amnesia?"

He nodded hesitantly. 

"Oh." Their faces smoothed in understanding. "You were in the military, right?" Imani said. Her glance flicked to his gloved left hand. "TBI?"

He nodded, not knowing what that meant but latching on to the explanation. Maria and Imani were both staring at him with expressions of sympathy.

"How much _do_ you remember?" Imani asked, leaning forward.

He searched for the answer. A flash of Steve's face, a conversation. Narrow shoulders and blonde hair. His fist bloodying Steve's face. Pain. White coats and needles. The chair. Orders. Blood. He shook his head, swallowing convulsively as his hand tightened on the fork. "I don't-I don't know. It's all...jumbled. I don't know."

He saw Maria subtly smack Imani's leg under the table. "Porque preguntarías eso?" Maria hissed to Imani.  _Why would you ask that?_

He finished his salad while Maria and Imani loaded their plates with pasta. While it was good, it did nothing to satisfy the yawning chasm of hunger inside him and he inhaled the delicious scents from the steaming bowl of pasta, his stomach rumbling.  

Maria laughed. "It's good you're hungry, I made plenty. Here, take as much as you want." She passed the bowl of pasta to him, her and Imani's plates already filled, red sauce topped by more of the powdered cheese.

He piled the same amount as she and Imani had taken on his plate, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling "take as much as you want" evoked. He sprinkled the powdered cheese on top of the sauce, the scents of tomatoes and garlic reaching his nose as he inhaled. Across the table, Maria and Imani both twirled their forks, winding the pasta around the tines before taking large bites. He copied the motion before bringing it to his mouth. The taste that met him was exquisite, better than anything he could ever have imagined. He had never tasted anything except MREs and the chalky protein smoothies Hydra would sometimes force him to drink. He didn't know food could even taste 'good.' But this, this was everything. He closed his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching up. His whole world narrowed to the variety of flavors overpowering his taste buds, his mouth tingling with pleasure. Once he had swallowed his first bite he attacked his plate with a vengeance, shoveling the pasta into his mouth as his eyes fluttered and widened in pleasure. When he glanced up, Maria and Imani were watching him in bemusement, their own bites slow and measured.

Maria's eyes suddenly widened, turning to Imani. ¿Crees que él recuerda los espaguetis? she whispered.  _Do you think he remembers spaghetti?_

"No sé, pero no voy a preguntarle." Imani hissed back in American-accented Spanish.  _I don't know, but I'm not going to ask him._

James swallowed the last bite of pasta, his plate scraped clean. "No, no recuerdo," he answered. "Pero es muy bueno."  _No, I don't remember. But it's very good._

Maria and Imani froze, staring at him with wide eyes. ¿Usted habla español? Maria squeaked.  _You speak Spanish?_

James frowned in confusion. "Sí." 

Both women turned red, looking uncomfortable. "I'm sorry," Maria said. "I shouldn't have said what I did."

He didn't know why she was apologizing but decided to nod in vague acknowledgement.

Maria leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. "But seriously, you don't remember pasta?"

He shook his head.

Imani cocked her head. "What about other foods?"

He shook his head again. "I don't remember food."

Maria was gaping and Imani's hand was frozen halfway to her mouth, pasta unraveling from the fork. Maria collected herself first, looking incredulous.

"You don't remember food at all? Like, nothing?"

Another shake of the head, hair falling across his face.

"Well, you certainly came to the right place," she said. "If there's anything I know, its food." She smiled. "First, have more pasta. You practically inhaled your first serving."

He complied, putting more spaghetti on his plate but making sure to eat slower, savoring the flavors.

Imani had recovered from her shock, finishing up her first plate. She looked at him curiously. "So, if you don't remember food, what have you been eating?"

He shrugged, swallowing his mouthful. "MREs."

Maria looked scandalized. "MREs? That's it? Good god, no wonder you like the spaghetti so much. Wait, for how long? Don't tell me you've been living off of them for months when there's perfectly good food."

If he counted Hydra, it had been seventy years. But they had fed him intravenously most of the time anyway. From when he had left..."Five days."

Imani stilled. "You mean you've only been out of the hospital for a few days? This just happened? Oh god."

He didn't know how to respond. He had never been in the hospital and it had been seventy years. None of her questions made sense. He hunched, his heart rate picking up in anxiety. 

Imani sat back, an unreadable expression on her face. "Sorry, I said I wouldn't pry."

He gave a bob of his head in acknowledgement, his heart rate slowing. 

"You just tell us if you need anything," Maria said, her soft brown eyes boring into his. "We're happy to help. Now, did Imani tell you about how we first met?"

He shook his head, grateful for the subject change. Maria grinned. "Well. It was 2006. I'm 17, and living at the shelter for LGBT youth. I'm this chubby gay immigrant Latina with an accent, so of course I get picked on. Then one day I'm getting teased and this beautiful girl walks in, all strong and confident, and goes 'hey, fuck off!' and punches one of the kids right in the face. It was love at first sight."

Imani laughed, grabbing Maria's hand on the table. "You always make me sound so chivalrous babe. But anyway, we hit it off right off the bat and I discover that she is literally a baking goddess. So naturally, I fell in love."

"Are you insinuating you only love me for my baked goods?" Maria asked teasingly.

Imani made a mock offended face. "Of course not!" She turned towards James, cupping her hand around her mouth. "Her cooking is also really good," she stage whispered.

He felt the corners of his lips quirk up, eyes crinkling as a small huff escaped him. Maria and Imani were both laughing openly, heads thrown back. 

"So," Maria said finally, gazing at Imani with an adoring expression, "that's how we met. And we've been together ever since. I taught Imani Spanish and baked her cookies and she kept me safe and painted portraits of me. We moved into this apartment when we were 20 and nothing's really changed since then." They exchanged loving looks, their hands intertwined.

Bucky thought of canvas, and slender paint-stained hands, of fists raised in a back alley and a punch thrown at a sneering face. Steve was the artist, he thought, but he was the protector. "That is..." he couldn't find the word.

"Cheesy?" Imani laughed.

He shook his head. The word swam up to his consciousness from somewhere deep inside, forgotten until this instant. "Beautiful."

Imani and Maria gave him soft smiles. Maria picked up the basket of bread, placing one on her empty plate and another on Imani's.

"Here, have some garlic bread." She shoved the basket toward him, an expectant smile on her face. "Tell me what you think."

He hesitantly took one, biting into the buttery bread. It was spongy at first, saturated with melted butter, cheese, and herbs, with a crust that crunched satisfyingly under his teeth. The flavors exploded in his mouth in warm buttery goodness, hints of garlic adding a zing. His eyes fluttered closed again, chewing slowly. He felt that same strange tugging on the corners of his mouth, a warm feeling lighting up inside him. He swallowed his first bite, nodding at Maria.

"It's very good," he said seriously.

She grinned. "I'm glad you like it. That's another food for your list."

The piece went down quickly as James tried to commit the taste to memory.

Maria nodded to the basket. "Do you want another one?"

He suddenly froze.  _Do you want some milk?_ His mind went blank. He knew that phrase; the trap disguised as a question. It mocked him, reminding him of his place. He was not allowed to have wants. If he said yes, he would be punished. If he said no, he would be punished. If he didn't answer he would be punished. A weapon does not have wants. A weapon does not have wants.  _A weapon does not have wants._

"James?" Maria was staring at him cautiously. "Are you okay?"

One unanswerable question after the other. His breaths became shallow and his eyes darted warily to Maria, waiting for the axe to fall.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Imani asked gently. 

His vision tunneled and all he could hear were the mocking voices of Hydra. Blind instinct took over, every sense screaming that he was about to be hurt. He stayed frozen in place, unmoving and unblinking as he stared straight ahead and waited for the punishment. 

Imani stood up and he flinched, his gaze unwavering. Maria made a small noise, grabbing Imani's arm. She sat back down.

"Hey, it's okay. You're safe." Maria said softly. "You're in our apartment. It's April 8, 2014. It's Tuesday. We're having dinner."

He was confused. Why was she telling him this? But slowly his panic lessened, heart rate slowing and paralysis lifting as he realized that they probably weren't going to punish him for not answering. He blinked, coming back to full awareness. Imani and Maria were still watching him carefully, posture nonthreatening. Maria gave him a small smile.

"Hey, there you are. You know where you are?"

He nodded. "Sorry," he said, ducking his head. He felt something hot creep up his neck. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," Imani said without heat. "We've known a lot of vets over the years. It happens."

He nodded again, still feeling off balance. 

"What triggered it?" Maria asked. "I don't want to do that to you again."

He couldn't verbalize it even if he wanted to. He shook his head, lips pressed together as a small noise of distress escaped.

Imani suddenly cocked her head. "Questions. You don't like some questions."

He relaxed fractionally, nodding. Maria's eyes widened and she turned to him, a look of comprehension dawning on his face.

"If we can figure out which questions..." She thought for a moment. "Right before you froze I asked if you wanted another piece of bread." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Was that was triggered it? Sorry, another question."

He nodded hesitantly.

Maria looked thoughtful. "Huh. Was it the bread? A triggered memory or something?"

He shook his head. 

"Okay, not the bread. But you seem to do well with yes or no questions, just not with that one. Huh." Her brow furrowed in thought.

Imani spoke up, tone contemplative. "Was it because she asked you what you wanted?"

He looked up, coldness stealing over him. He was speaking before he knew what he was saying, the phrase branded on his lips.

"A weapon does not have wants."

There was a stunned silence, both women's eyes glimmering with poorly concealed horror. Maria's hand came to her heart, leaning forward.

"Oh honey, no. You're a person," she said gently. "You know that, right?"

He shifted uncomfortably, ducking his head. Was he a person? Bucky had been a person. But he wasn't Bucky. Yet he felt rage at Hydra for what they had done to him. Didn't that qualify as having wants? He...wanted his memories back. He  _wanted_ to be free. The realization swept over him like a wave. He had  _wants._ He was a  _person._

He nodded in response to Maria's question. "I know. I just..they-" he broke off. "I know. Sorry."

They looked at him with sadness, shooting each other meaningful glances.

"Don't apologize," Imani reminded him. She grabbed the basket of bread, setting it in front of him. "It's okay to have another piece," she said carefully. 

James relaxed, the open invitation soothing. He grabbed another piece, the immersive experience immediately erasing all other thought. Maria started on a story about the bakery she worked at, her hands moving in sweeping gestures as she talked and Imani watching her with adoring eyes, arm propped on the table and chin resting on her hand. James relaxed and let her lilting voice soothe him, the positive human interaction so foreign to him.

They shared more tidbits of their life, Imani discussing her art. She had a job doing the artwork for a small line of comic books, although her first love was painting. The job didn't pay much, but she hoped to get a job with a bigger comic book publisher eventually. Maria likewise hoped to have her own bakery one day, her eyes shining with excitement as she talked about her dreams for the future. James nodded at appropriate times during their stories and they stayed away from any questions about him, sensitive about his amnesia. They talked until evening approached, finally packing up the leftover pasta and bread and clearing away the used dishes so Imani could wash them. James tried to help as much as he could, copying Maria's motions and bringing dishes from the table to the sink full of soapy water. Maria dried the dishes that Imani washed, directing James to put the dishes away. He complied readily, the orders numbing his mind. Finally they were done, the last rays of sunlight fading through the curtains. Imani and Maria walked him to the door, smiles on their faces.

"I'm so glad you took me up on my offer," Imani said. "It's been so long since we've had a decent neighbor and you're just lovely."

He ducked his head at the adjective, unused to praise. Manners crawled out of the dusty crevices of his mind. "Thank you for having me," he said solemnly.

"Oh querido, you're welcome here anytime." Maria beamed, pressing the covered bowl of leftover pasta and bread into his hands. "You will not be living on MREs any longer if I have anything to say about it."

"And she has a lot to say about it," Imani added. 

"Thank you," he said again. 

Maria waved her hand. "Nonsense. Just come back with the bowl when you're finished and I will give you your next food." She smiled.

"Don't be a stranger,"  said Imani, grinning.

When he got back to his apartment he put the leftover food in the dingy refrigerator in the kitchen, Koshka twining around his legs. He opened one of the cans of cat food and read the directions, squinting as he tried to understand what they meant. Luckily, the last tenant had left dishes and silverware in the drawers so he chose a plate and a fork, scooping out a small blob of food from the can. He set it in front of Koshka, amazed when she dug into the unappetizing mush. The can went into the fridge per the directions, Koshka's water dish refilled from the sink. He wandered into the bedroom, feeling warm and sleepy. There was a pleasant weight in his stomach, so different from the cramping emptiness that had plagued him for so long. The pile of new clothes in the corner caught his eye, the soft pants looking much less restrictive than his jeans. He quickly took off his boots and socks, shucked his jeans, and pulled them on, snapping the tag off with the metal hand. They were a revelation. Soft against his skin, they were loose and and comfortable, allowing for easy movement. While too loose for fighting, the range of motion they offered was comforting compared to the unyielding jeans. His made his sweep of the apartment, latching the window and checking every corner for danger. Finally he curled up on the mattress, hand clutching his knife and Koshka in a warm ball against his bare feet. He was asleep within moments. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

_He was lying on a table, but everything was muddled. He was speaking, mumbled words over and over. "James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038, James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 3255038.._

_A face appeared, looming over him. "Bucky." Gentle hands shook him. "Oh my god." Then the straps were being torn away, a familiar face entering his vision again. "Is tha'?" he slurred confusedly._

_"It's me. It's Steve."_

_"Steve," he said wonderingly, a dazed smile pulling at his face._

_"Come on." Strong hands helped him up, Bucky swaying in his hold. A hand clapped the side of his head. "I thought you were dead."_

_He scanned Steve up and down in confusion, thoughts muddled. "I thought you were smaller."_

_Steve clutched him as a rumble echoed through the factory and he swayed, his arm going around Steve's shoulder. "Come on."_

_He stumbled down the corridor, supported by Steve's weight, Steve who shouldn't be this big and he was sure he was dreaming, any moment now he'd wake up to Zola's face...._

_They were in a bar, the scent of whisky and cigarette smoke filling the air as all around him men chatted and laughed. Steve turned to look at him intently._

_"Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"_

_"Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight." He smiled wryly, turning to look at Steve. "I'm following him." He took another drink before setting it down and leaning in closer. "But you're keepin' the outfit, right?"_

_Steve huffed a laugh, looking back at the Captain America poster. "You know what, it's kinda growin' on me..."_

_They were standing on a mountain, the wind whipping at their faces as they stared down the thin line hanging over the train tracks._

_"Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?"_

_"Yeah, and I threw up?"_

_"This isn't payback is it?"_

_Steve squinted at the line above their heads. "Now why would I do that?"_

_"We were right, Dr. Zola's on the train," a voice interjected as they turned to look at Gabe by the comms. "Hydra dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle..."_

He woke with a start, heart pounding. He was curled on his right side, knife still clutched in his hand. There was a warm weight against his chest, vibrations pulsing in a soothing rhythm. He relaxed, uncurling and rolling onto his back. Koshka woke at the movement, blinking up at him sleepily from his side. He set the knife on the bed, moving his hand to stroke her fur as he recalled his dreams. They were memories, he was sure of it. Memories of Steve. Unlike the previous night, these were...good. He reached for these memories like a dying man, Steve his last chance at salvation. He felt Steve like a part of him, a phantom limb that tingled and throbbed with remembrances. He only remembered snippets, flashes of golden-blonde hair and a a wry smile, blue eyes that sparked with determination. But oh, how he knew him. He had known Steve before he knew himself. Hydra had tried to erase Bucky, but they could never erase Steve. 

Thoughts ordered, he made to get up. He decided not to change, his clothes perfectly clean and functional. He was wearing the soft pants with the red shirt he had worn yesterday, glove still secure on the metal hand. He used the bathroom, flattening sleep-mussed hair in the mirror on some forgotten instinct. His stomach rumbled, reminding him to eat.

He padded barefoot to the kitchen, taking out the leftover pasta. He ate it from the bowl with a fork, the taste still incomparable to him even thought it was cold. The last two pieces of garlic bread went down as well, the meal barely filling the hole inside him as he sponged the remnants of sauce from the bowl with the bread. He was left with an empty bowl, remembering Maria's instructions to bring it back. He ran it under the sink, recalling how Imani had washed the dishes. He didn't have soap but he turned the water scalding hot, scrubbing with his flesh hand until the bowl was clean. Satisfied, he set it on the counter.

He heard the soft hush of Koshka's paws padding towards him and quickly retrieved her food, setting it on a new plate. As she ate he opened the window so she could go out, a cool spring breeze ruffling his hair. Back in the kitchen Koshka had finished her food, licking her lips in satisfaction. He rinsed the plates and forks he had used, setting them back on the counter beside the bowl. Koshka wandered to the windowsill, curling up in a patch of sun. Frowning, James looked at the stove clock. 9:00, it read in glowing red numbers. He had slept for 12 hours. He felt a stab of fear, immediately tensing before realizing there was no one around to punish him. He did a lap around the apartment to settle his nerves, checking for any danger he had missed during his long sleep. 

When he was satisfied that he was still uncompromised he picked up the bowl again, heading across the hall. He knocked on the door hesitantly, body tense. The door cracked open, Imani's face appearing with a confused expression. It cleared when she saw James, a small smile spreading.

"James, hi." She glanced at the empty bowl in his gloved hand. "Oh! Right. Maria is at work, but thanks for remembering to return it. I'm actually just having breakfast, want to come in?"

He tensed. Her eyes widened. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, I forgot. It's okay to come in." She opened the door wider.

He relaxed, nodding in relief as he stepped forward. She shot him an apologetic look before leading the way to the kitchen.

"Just set the bowl down on the counter," she instructed. He complied, noticing the pan of eggs cooking on the stove, the scent of breakfast and coffee meeting his nose as he inhaled. "I'm guessing you had the pasta for breakfast, am I right?" Her eyes twinkled.

He nodded. 

"Right, are you still hungry at all? Maria would kill me if I didn't introduce you to proper breakfast food."

He nodded again. She smiled, breaking more eggs into the pan. "Alright, I'm going to make scrambled eggs and toast, and introduce you to the wonders of coffee." Washing her hands, she took two pieces of bread, popping them into the toaster and pushing the lever. She returned to the pan, using a flat spatula to scramble the eggs and sprinkling spices over the pan. They cooked quickly, the smell making James' mouth water. When the first two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster James startled, whirling around to locate the noise. Imani looked over but didn't comment. "The toast is done, but we'll probably need more," she said smoothly. She handed him a plate. "Here, put those slices on the plate and put two more pieces of bread in."

He did as he was told, carefully retrieving the browned toast from the toaster and setting it on the plate. He copied Imani's motions with the bread, inserting it into the two slots and pressing down the lever. He set the plate next to the toaster, awaiting the next slices. Imani turned off the stove, the eggs done. She grabbed the plate with toast, scooping half of the eggs on it and handing it to James before scooping the rest onto another plate. The second round of toast popped out of the toaster, James managing to suppress his flinch this time. Imani grabbed the two slices, setting them on her plate next to the eggs and grabbing a dish of butter off the counter. She led the way to the table, setting down her plate as James did the same. 

"Alright, you can sit down. I'll be back in a sec with the coffee." He watched as she went back into the kitchen, pouring coffee from the coffeemaker into two mugs and bringing them to the table, setting them by each of their plates. She went back and opened the fridge, withdrawing a carton of milk and grabbing a package of sugar from the cabinet. She made her way to the table, setting them to the side. "I don't know what you'll like so I got everything. I usually have it with just a little milk." She picked up the carton, splashing a little into the mug, where it turned the dark liquid a light brown. "Maybe try it black first; you look like a black coffee kinda guy." 

He didn't know what that meant but obliged, taking a small sip of the hot liquid. The bitter taste hit the back of his throat, startlingly familiar as he swallowed. He had a flash of a tin cup, dark liquid sloshing over mud-stained boots as men in uniform laughed. He blinked, coming back to reality. Imani was watching him carefully, taking a sip of her own.

"How is it?" she asked.  

He looked up at her, frowning in concentration. "I-I remember...I think I drank it-before. In the Army."

"You remember it?" Imani said eagerly, leaning forward. "That's amazing. Maybe your memories are starting to come back." She took a bit of eggs, motioning to his plate. "Try the eggs. I put a lot of spices in them, so they might not resemble anything you've had before."

He obediently picked up his fork and took a bite, the eggs fluffy and warm. They were flavorful, hints of garlic that he recognized from the pasta. He nodded eagerly, digging in. "They're very good."

Imani grinned. "Thank you. So, Army huh? I realized I never asked which branch of the military you were. I know you don't really remember, but did they tell you your rank and everything?"

He nodded, remembering his dream. "Sergeant Barnes. 32557038."

Imani sat back, an incredulous look on her face. "Wait, your name is James Barnes? And you were a Sergeant in the Army?" She shook her head, chuckling. "You even kind of look like him. Talk about irony."

He frowned, confused. "What?"

"Bucky Barnes." He froze. "You know, Captain America's best friend from childhood. Oh, you probably don't remember. His name was James Barnes as well, and he was a Sergeant in the Army during World War II." She studied him intently. "Huh. I haven't seen a picture of him since my high school history textbook but you really do look kinda similar, except for the long hair." She chuckled. "Maybe you're related? Just a pretty weird coincidence. I used to be obsessed with him in the comic books when I was a kid."

He swallowed, trying to keep his face blank. "Comic books?" he said hoarsely.

She nodded energetically. "Yeah. Captain America and his Howling Commandos, fighting against the Nazis and defeating Hydra. They're what made me want to be a comics artist." She sighed. "Of course, now we know they didn't actually defeat Hydra. It's crazy what went down in DC. I only saw some of the data dump online and the new reports, but I can't believe Hydra's been inside Shield all this time. And they said Cap was fighting this metal armed Hydra super soldier or something, but no one knows what happened to him. And Cap's being all silent and reclusive. I don't know what to think anymore." She shook her head. "Damn world's gone crazy."

The metal hand was curled into a fist on the counter, his breaths shallow as his heart pounded. Imani suddenly looked at him in concern.

"I'm sorry, that was probably really confusing. I'm guessing you don't remember what a lot of that meant. Although I think this happened after you got injured. You said its only been what, a week?" She looked over at him, studying his tensed form intently. Suddenly her head drew back and eyes widened in realization. "Wait, you weren't in DC, were you?"

He flinched, breaths coming faster as he stared down at the metal hand. 

"Oh," she said, voice full of realization. "So that was where you got injured." Suddenly he heard an intake of breath, tension filling the air. "Wait, then why are you here-you're not-you're not Hydra, are you? Oh god."

He looked up, meeting her eyes. He shook his head emphatically, both hands clenched in fists. Never again. "No," he said vehemently. "I'm not Hydra. I'm not. I don't-No.." He was trembling, voice choked with anger.

He saw Imani relax, face softening. "I believe you," she said gently. "I'm sorry. It's just, you show up in a shady area of New York City a few days later, all alone, looking like you're trying to hide. It's a little suspicious. If you were with the good guys, wouldn't you be, you know, with them? I can't believe Shield, or what's left of it, or the Army would just let you wander off with amnesia right after. It just doesn't make sense." She looked at James, eyes searching his face as she waited for an answer.

He didn't know what to say. He felt like he was back in Hydra, being questioned about a failed mission. He swallowed, looking down. "I don't-it's not..." He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not-not Shield-I can't-I don't-" He was breathing rapidly again, body trembling.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry, I won't press." His eyes flickered open, looking hesitantly across at Imani, who met his gaze warmly. "You don't have to tell me. I know you're not Hydra, and that's all I need to hear. I can take the rest of faith, even if I don't understand."

He exhaled, trying to regulate his breathing as he nodded. He had never gotten these reactions when he was with Hydra, and didn't know why he suddenly had them now. He used to be able to take the strongest punishments without twitching, and now he fell apart with a few words. He didn't know what was happening to him.

"Here, finish your breakfast and I'll stop pestering you with questions. Try the toast with just butter then butter and jelly." She buttered her own toast and then slathered it with red jelly, pushing the condiments towards him as she bit into it. He copied the motions, putting just butter on the first piece before taking a bite. The texture was good, a satisfying crunch followed by the buttery softness of the inside. He nodded his approval, finishing it off in a few bites. The next piece he put both butter and jelly on, taking a large bite. The sweetness burst in his mouth in tingling paths, his eyes widening. It was sweeter than anything he had tasted before, and he found that he enjoyed it immensely. The taste stayed in his mouth even after the piece of toast was gone, the sugary tang sending prickles of sensation through his tongue.

"Good?" Imani asked with a smile.

He nodded. "Very good."

He finished the coffee and together they cleared the table, the motions now familiar to James. Imani washed the dishes while he dried them and put them away, their locations memorized. When they were done Imani dried her hands with a towel, looking contemplative.

"Hey would you mind helping me with our living room window? It's stuck, and I'm not strong enough to get it open. Consider it payment for the food."

He nodded and Imani smiled. "Great, thanks so much. I knew those muscles would come in handy."

She led him over to the window, an exact copy of the one in James' apartment. The white paint was flaking off the old wood frame, panes thick and hazy and the window slightly crooked in its track. James grabbed it with the metal hand, tugging upwards. It gave a squeak as it was pulled up, righting itself in the track. He pulled it down and then back up again, its path slightly smoother. Imani moved forward, testing it herself. It moved easily now that it was unstuck, only creaking occasionally.

"Wow, thank you. We haven't been able to get that free in forever. You're a lifesaver."

He shrugged uncomfortably.

"Alright, I have to get to work but thanks for coming over. You're always welcome here."

He nodded. "Thank you."

She walked him to the door, sending him off with a small wave.

He spent the rest of the morning sitting on his couch with Koshka in his lap. All the new memories and experiences were making his head pound, so he let his mind fall into a comfortable blank as he stroked Koshka's soft fur. He had given her some of the kibble from the bag earlier and she had devoured it greedily, reminding him of himself with new food. After a few hours he slipped involuntarily into sleep, head lolling against the back of the couch and hand stilling on Koshka's fur.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

_A man was shoved to the floor, hands bound behind his back and mouth gagged. He struggled, eyes full of terror and face bloody._

_"Kill him." A man with the Hydra emblem on his shoulder spoke._

_Bucky shook his head, every inch of him throbbing in agony as he struggled to stay standing, arms held by guards. He didn't even try to move for the gun on the table in front of him. It only contained one bullet, and they were too fast for his weak form. He had already tried to use it against them and it didn't end well. He waited for the pain that followed every refusal._

_None came. More guards grabbed the man, holding him between them. The Hydra officer moved forward, withdrawing a knife._

_"Maybe this will make you reconsider," he said with a sickening leer. The knife met skin, and the screams began._

_"Let him go!" he screamed, voice hoarse. "Stop!"_

_"Not until you've learned your lesson," the officer said, continuing to slice and carve as the man screamed and writhed. It took him 5 hours to die, Bucky sobbing and struggling ineffectually against his captors until finally he just hung there, eyes staring into space as screams rebounded off the walls._

_They dragged the corpse away, a new man being pushed to the center of the room._

_"Kill him."_

_Bucky picked up the gun and fired straight between his eyes..._

_He was crouched on a rooftop, a man in his sights. He fired, the man's body crumpling to the floor..._

_A child screamed, it's father dead on the floor, a pool of blood slowly growing, eyes wide and glassy..._

_A flash of red hair, covering the target. He shot through her stomach, hitting the target's heart. He was dead within minutes, the red haired woman bleeding as she tried to save the target..._

_He was approaching a crashed car, a figure crawling on the pavement by the driver's side. "Help my wife..Please, help."_

_He bent down, grabbing the man by the hair with his right and pulling him up, ready to strike. He paused, something familiar tugging at him. The man looked up at him, a strange expression on his face._

_"Sergeant Barnes?"_

_He only hesitated a second before bringing his fist down, again and again until the man went limp, letting him fall to the ground._

_"Howard!" a woman's voice cried._

_He picked up the man, dragging him and positioning him in the driver's seat, crushed face against the wheel. He walked around to the other side, reaching in with his flesh hand to wrap it around the woman's throat..._

_He was on the bridge, the red haired woman evading his shots. "У меня есть она. Найти его," he said. 'I have her, find him'..._

_The red haired woman threw something at his arm, electricity shooting up the nerves and making it hand heavy and useless. He pried it off with his flesh hand, ignoring the shocks. With a wrench of the arm, he set off again..._

_He was fighting the man with the shield, attacking him viciously, mind buzzing with a numb rage. His shield cut into the metal arm, separating the plates. The man grabbed his mask and flung him, the soldier landing in a roll, mask torn away. He turned. The man straightened up, expression one of pain and incredulity._

_"Bucky?" he said._

_"Who the hell is Bucky?" the soldier replied, arm extending to fire at the man, something familiar pricking at his brain..._

He startled awake to someone knocking on the door. In one smooth motion he was up, dislodging Koshka and withdrawing a knife from his pants. He crept forward on silent feet until he was flattened against the wall next to the door, ready to strike when it opened. Instead the knock repeated, a soft voice carrying through the door.

"James?"

He unlocked and opened the door towards him from the far side, fist still gripping the knife as he waited behind the door, his mind filled with static. 

"James?" Maria's voice questioned. He hesitated. She stepped into the room cautiously, looking around, followed by Imani. Finally she turned and caught sight of him next to the door, jumping slightly and pressing her hand to her heart. Imani followed her gaze.

"Oh! You scared me." Maria took in the knife in his hand, his body still tensed. "James?"

Imani raised her hands. "Hey, it's just us. We're friendlies. You with us?"

He relaxed slightly, lowering the knife. "да." He frowned, shaking his head to clear it. "Yes."

He stowed the knife in his waistband, Imani and Maria sill watching him cautiously. He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Imani waved a hand. "It's fine. I understand. We just came to bring you some more food. Have you eaten?"

He frowned, confused. He thought Maria was at work, and hadn't he just eaten? But when he looked around, the light was dim, no more sunlight streaming in the windows. Hadn't it just been morning?

"What time is it?" he asked confusedly.

Maria frowned, raising an eyebrow. "It's 7:00." She took in his appearance, brow shining with sweat. "Were you sleeping?"

He blinked. "I think so."

"I'll take that to mean you haven't eaten," Imani said wryly. He shook his head. "That's good, because we come bearing leftover pollo y arroz. Maria says you haven't lived until you've tasted her recipe." She held up a sealed container, filled with a reddish rice dish.

Maria beamed. "It's true! This recipe is a well-guarded secret in the Hernández family."

James relaxed the rest of the way, their familiar tones setting him at ease. "Thank you."

Koshka chose this moment to come creeping forward from where she had run off at his sudden awakening. She sniffed the air, looking at Imani and Maria curiously as she rubbed against James' legs. 

Both women's expressions turned soft. "Oh, I didn't know you had a cat." Imani crouched down, holding out a hand. Koshka wandered over, sniffing her hand before bumping her head against Imani's hand. Imani's face lit up, starting to pet Koshka as she purred. Maria squatted down as well, extending a hand. The two women cooed over the cat, Koshka eating up the attention.

"She's so sweet. What's her name?" Maria asked, scritching under Koshka's chin.

"Koshka," he replied, the Russian rolling off his tongue. 

"Hi Koshka," Imani said to the cat, the name blunted with her American accent. "Is that Russian?"

"Yes. It means female cat."

She laughed. "Very original. How long have you had her?"

He counted. "Five days. I found her in a dumpster. She wouldn't leave."

Imani chuckled. "Sounds like she picked you. Cats do that." She felt the cat's sides and frowned. "She's so thin. No wonder she was in a dumpster. Poor thing was probably starving." She scratched Koshka's ears.

He nodded. "It is time for her food."

"Here, show us where to set this down and you can feed her," Imani said.

He nodded, leading the way to the kitchen. Koshka perked up, trotting after him and meowing. Imani set the dish down on the table, looking around. He got Koshka's food from the fridge, putting another blob on a plate before putting it in front of her as she dug in.

"She is very lucky you found her," Maria said. "She's such a sweetheart." He nodded. "Now you must take care of yourself as well. Do you have a pan to heat this up?"

He nodded. He had seen one in the cabinet from the last tenant.

Maria nodded in approval. "Good. I will not have you microwaving my food. Now, you do remember how to heat up food, right?"

He shook his head.

Maria clucked, putting her hands on her hips. "Ay. Pobrecito James. Alright, your first cooking lesson starts now. Get out the pan."

Imani was smirking, leaning against the wall. "Told you."

James moved to do as he was told, finding the skillet in the lower cabinets. Maria checked it over before nodding in approval. 

"Okay, put it on the stove and turn it on low heat. Now we're going to just dump this lovely dish in the pan and wait for it to heat up. But make sure you stir it around a little so it heats evenly." He poked the contents with a wooden spoon, spreading them evenly. The dish consisted of rice and chicken that appeared to be coated in tomato sauce and spices, chunks of tomato and small green leaves throughout. As it heated a mouthwatering aroma filled the air, James' stomach rumbling in answer.

"Do you have a plate?" Maria asked.

He nodded, reaching in the cabinet to grab one along with a fork from the drawer. Imani was sitting at the table, Koshka curled up in her lap as she petted her. When Maria deemed the dish hot enough he spooned it onto the plate, mouth watering in anticipation. Maria sat down at the table as well, reaching over to pet Koshka in Imani's lap.

"Now, I want to see how you like it." Both women watched him eagerly as he took the first bite. The dish was the most flavorful thing he had had yet, his mouth burning slightly from the spice. He closed his eyes, almost moaning in pleasure. 

"It is..." He reached for the word. "..Incredible."

Maria clapped her hands. "Ah! Now that is what I call appreciation for my cooking. I'm keeping you forever."

Imani rolled her eyes. "She just loves it because her food is the first food you remember eating. Of course you'll like it the best."

Maria shoved her arm. "Hey, everyone loves my cooking. But it's true. You get to try all this food for the very first time in your memory and I get to make it and see your reactions. It's my dream come true."

He didn't know why feeding him was her dream come true but didn't question it, focusing on finishing the rest of his meal.

Imani looked around the apartment from where she was seated, taking in the bare space. "Don't have much stuff, huh? I didn't even see you move in, you were just there yesterday morning."

He shrugged, the motion feeling unnatural. Maria tutted. "Yes, it's so bare. Did you even bring anything?"

He nodded. "Money, weapons, and Koshka." The cat in question hopped down from Imani's lap, setting off towards the window.

Imani stared, eyebrows raised. "Seriously? I'm not even going to address the weapons part. Nothing else?"

He shifted, thinking. "MREs, some clothes, water bottles, and Koshka's dish."

Now they were both staring at him incredulously. "Please tell me that's not all you have," Maria said.

He shrank under their gazes. "No. I bought some things at the store."

"Still," Maria said. "How have you been living?"

He hunched his shoulders. "I don't know."

"Wait, you do remember like, basic life skills right?" Imani questioned.

He swallowed. "No."

Maria drew back, brow furrowed. "Wait, are you telling me that you're a complete amnesiac with no memory of how to take care of yourself living all alone?"

He nodded, not understanding why she was so upset by this. "Yes."

They looked at him in horror before glancing at each other. "Oh my god," Imani said. "I knew you had no memories but I didn't think..."

"I know," Maria said, turning to James. "Oh querido. Why are you not getting help?"

He shook his head, unable to answer. 

"You said you were injured in DC," Imani said. "Doesn't someone know about this?"

He clenched his fist. "They did this to me," he whispered.

Maria leaned forward. "Who did this to you?"

He swallowed, closing his eyes briefly. "Hydra."

"I'm sorry," Imani said. "I know it must have been horrible in DC. But why did Shield or the hospital send you off without help?"

He shook his head. She didn't understand. "No. It's not-not DC. Not Shield. They-" his voice faltered.

Maria frowned. "Wait, not DC? Do you mean something happened before?"

He nodded. "They-they took...everything. They made me-they-" he was breathing harshly, fists clenching on the table.

Both women still looked confused and worried. "This happened before DC?" Imani clarified.

He nodded. "Years," he choked out. "They made me-" he shook his head, pressing his lips together.

"Were you a-a prisoner of Hydra?" Imani said carefully.

He heaved a breath that sounded like a sob, nodding. "But I didn't-I didn't know. They took everything. I couldn't-they made me-"

"Hydra somehow took your memory?" Maria said.

He nodded.

"Oh god." Maria covered her mouth with her hand. "But how are you here? Didn't Shield rescue you?"

He swallowed, shaking his head. 

"You escaped when everything went down in DC?" Imani guessed.

He nodded.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Maria asked gently. "I'm sure the Shield people would have helped you."

He shook his head vehemently. "No. No-I hurt-I killed people. I hurt Steve." He waited for them to run away, to call the authorities. He deserved it. He remembered his dreams, full of death that he had caused, blood on his hands.

"You-what?" Suddenly Imani's eyes widened, going to his gloved hand. "You're not-the man with the metal arm. DC. Steve-Captain America. Was that you?"

He nodded, hand going to his glove. He pulled it off, hearing an intake of breath from both women. He rested it flat on the table, palm side down. Unthreatening. He waited for the axe to fall, head bowed in submission.

"You-" Imani took a deep breath. "Was it you, or was it what Hydra made you do?" Her voice sounded gentle.

He shook his head, confused at her reaction. "But I did it."

"You said they took your memories, and that they made you do it. Did you have any choice?"

He hesitated. Did he? He had been a mindless automaton, every bit of humanity carved out; a hollow shell filled with pain and orders. Hadn't he tried to resist, over and over? But he could still see his fist smashing against Steve's cheekbone, his hand strangling the woman in the car. His hands had still carried out the orders. He shook his head, confused.

"I don't-but-"

Imani leaned closer. "Did you want to do it?"

He flinched. "A weapon does not have wants," he said reflexively, tone flattening.

"There you go," Imani said softly. "You didn't even have the agency to choose for yourself." She slowly stretched out her hand, resting it on top of the metal one. "It wasn't your fault."

He felt the pressure of her hand on the metal one, eyes fixated on the contact. He barely dared to breathe, staying completely still. She slowly withdrew it, placing her hand on the table right in front of it. He breathed again, body relaxing fractionally as his eyes tracked up to meet hers. She was staring at him with gentle intensity, no trace of fear or hatred in her gaze.

"You've never tried to hurt us," Maria added. "You're gentle and kind. You act like you're scared of us most of the time, for gods sake. You literally saved a cat from a dumpster and started feeding her. You even gave her a name. Those are not the actions of a heartless killer."

He hunched, more confused than ever. He didn't understand why they were being so forgiving. So trusting. Didn't they understand what he was?

"But-I-I still did it," he whispered. "So many years. So many people. I don't remember all of them, but I did it."

"Ay querido, what did they do to you?" Maria said under her breath.

"Years?" Imani asked softly. "How long did Hydra have you?"

He swallowed. He had already done the math. "Seventy years."

There was a stunned silence.

"Seven-Seventy years?" Imani said incredulously. "That's impossible. You'd be what, a hundred years old?" Suddenly her eyes widened in horror. "Wait. James Barnes.  _Steve._ You-you can't be." 

Maria gasped. "You're Bucky Barnes."

He flinched. "Not anymore."

Imani was still gaping. "But how? You should be close to a hundred years old right now."

He shook his head. "Cryofreeze. They froze me-in between...missions."

Imani's eyes were filling with tears as she stared at him, Maria clutching her hand in a similar state. "Oh god," she said. "Oh god, I can't even imagine... _Bucky..._ "

He shook his head. "I'm not Bucky any more."

"Okay. That's okay. You don't have to be anyone you don't want to be, okay?" Imani said. He nodded.

"But you said,  _I hurt Steve,_ " Maria said. "Do you-do you remember him?"

He nodded, eyes going distant. "I knew him. I knew him and then they took it away. And they told me to kill him. But he said-he said my name, and that we were friends, and he said- and I remembered, but it was too late. He was hurt, and I-I tried to save him but I didn't know why and everything was confusing. But I knew him." He clenched his jaw, eyes prickling with emotion.

Suddenly there was a small tap on his thigh. He sat back and looked down, seeing Koshka sitting there. She immediately jumped into his lap, sitting facing him as she purred. He stroked a trembling hand through her fur, her yellow eyes blinking calmly up at him. When he looked back across the table Maria and Imani were watching him with heartbreaking expressions, tears flowing freely down their faces. 

"James, why didn't you go to Steve?" Maria asked gently.

He frowned. "I hurt him."

"But you didn't want to. You tried to save him. It sounds like he was trying to help you remember, and it worked. I'm sure he's looking for you."

He shook his head. "I can't," he said softly. "I can't."

Maria nodded tearfully. "Okay. Okay. You do whatever you need to do. Just know that Imani and I are here for you, and somewhere out there Steve is too. You're not alone anymore." 


	7. Chapter 7

_He was six, and three bullies were beating up a tiny figure in a back alley. He ran forward, full of righteous anger._

_"Hey, pick on someone your own size!" he yelled, punching one kid straight in the face. The bullies scattered, their victim heaving himself to his feet. He was short and scrawny, blue eyes hard with determination and blonde hair flopping over his forehead. He raised his chin defiantly, looking at Bucky._

_"I had 'em on the ropes," he said sulkily._

_Bucky grinned. "Sure ya' did." He stuck out a hand. "Bucky Barnes."_

_A slender hand extended, fingers warm and soft against Bucky's. "Steve Rogers."_

_He was sixteen, and Steve's lip was bleeding from another fight. Stepping close he reached out a hand, swiping his thumb over the cut. He paused, his gaze suddenly focused on Steve's mouth. He flicked his eyes up to Steve's and then back down, leaning in closer. He heard an intake of breath from Steve, his mouth parting slightly. Then he was pressing his lips to Steve's, a fire building in his stomach. Steve kissed back, his body pressing into Bucky's. He kissed like he fought, messy and rough and determined, his hands fisted in Bucky's shirt and weight balanced on his toes as he stretched up. Finally they broke apart, breathing heavily as they looked at each other._

_"So," Steve said nonchalantly._

_Bucky grinned. "So."_

_They both started laughing, clutching their stomachs as their shoulders shook with mirth. Bucky slung an arm around Steve's shoulders, walking out of the alley._

_"So, you an' me?" he asked._

_Steve grinned. "You even hafta ask?"_

_"You're a punk," he said fondly._

_"Jerk. See if I kiss you again."_

_Bucky stopped, hauling Steve around and kissing him soundly. Steve made a noise of indignation against his mouth before kissing back, eyes fluttering closed._

_He was twenty-one, and he was sitting on a rickety fire escape, his shoulder pressed against Steve's as their legs swung over the edge. He took a swig from the bottle of whisky in his hand, passing it to Steve as the faint popping of fireworks echoed across the city._

_"Happy Birthday, Steve," he said._

_Steve took a sip from the bottle, grimacing at the taste. "Thanks, Buck."_

_Bucky slid his arm around Steve's slim shoulders, resting his cheek against soft blonde hair as Steve nestled his head on Bucky's shoulder._

_"Hey Buck, do you ever think about the future?"_

_"Yeah, why?"_

_"I dunno. Whaddya' think our lives are gonna look like in another twenty years?"_

_Bucky thought. "No idea. But I know whatever happens you ain't gettin' rid of me. I'm with ya' till the end of the line, pal."_

_He was twenty-three, and he was sprawled on the couch as Steve sketched him with steady hands, brow furrowed in concentration. The radio droned quietly in the background, the late August air warm and heavy. Sweat trickled down Bucky's neck and into the hem of his undershirt, his shoulders aching after a long day at the docks. He watched Steve as he sketched, the last rays of evening sun filtering through the window and reflecting off golden strands of hair. Slender fingers wrapped around the pencil, smudges of graphite along the pinky as he drew with quick, sure strokes, looking over at Bucky now and then. Bucky stayed in the same position, lying on his back with one arm drawn up under his head, the other resting on his stomach as he watched Steve with lidded eyes._

_"Whatcha' thinkin' about, Buck?" Steve asked softly, pencil still steadily moving across the page._

_Bucky's lips twitched. "You," he replied._

_Steve rolled his eyes. "Sap."_

_"Your sap, though," Bucky said, grinning as he waggled his eyebrows in Steve's direction._

_Steve sighed, putting his pencil down as he crossed the room. "Jerk."_

_"Punk," Bucky replied as Steve's lips met his, smiling into the kiss._

_He was twenty-six, and a guy was beating up a familiar figure in a back alley. He caught the guy's arm, shoving him away._

_"Pick on someone your own size," he snarled. The guy lunged back and Bucky dodged the swipe, punching him straight in the face. He sent a final kick to the guy's backside, sending him running. He turned, swaggering over to where Steve hunched over in the corner, wiping blood from his mouth._

_"Sometimes, I think you like getting punched," he said, bending down to pick up a piece of paper on the ground and adding it to the newspaper already clutched there._

_"I had him on the ropes," Steve replied._

_He opened up the paper, seeing the 4F stamped in large letters. "How many times is this? Ah, you're from Paramus now. You know it's illegal to lie on your enlistment form. And seriously, Jersey?"_

_Steve straightened up, taking in his appearance with surprise. "You get your orders?"_

_He took a breath, tipping his chin up. "The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."_

_Steve scoffed, looking down and shaking his head. "I should be going."_

_Bucky scanned his face for a second before smiling, wrapping an arm around Steve's shoulders as they walked down the alley. "Come on, it's my last night." He released Steve, looking at the blood dripping from his mouth. "We gotta get you cleaned up."_

_"Why, where we goin?"_

_He handed the newspaper to Steve as they walked, throwing the form to the side. "The future."_

Bucky woke slowly, the last vestiges of sleep slipping away like grains of sand. Early morning light shafted through the blinds, motes of dust dancing in the air. Koshka was a warm ball of fluff at his feet, curled on the blanket that lay over him. He lay there for a moment on his soft pillow, replaying the dreams in his mind. Memories. They felt like seeing the sun come out from behind a cloud, rays of light illuminating the dark corners of his mind. He could almost believe it was him in his dreams, that that life was his. He almost felt like Bucky.

Finally he heaved himself off the bed, padding into the bathroom. He picked up his new toothbrush and toothpaste, brushing his teeth. Imani and Maria had showed him how to do this last night, horrified that had hadn't know what it was. Hydra had fed him intravenously for the most part so they only did infrequent dental cleanings and procedures to keep him functional. He shuddered at the memory. He was amazed at how wonderful and clean his mouth felt now, after a week without. Just another way Hydra had tried to hobble him.

He got in the shower, thinking about what Imani and Maria had talked about with him last night. After they found out who he was they had promised to help him, to show him how to live again. He had been baffled by their desire to help him but acquiesced, feeling something warm settle in his chest. Seeing his exhaustion after the emotionally charged evening they had sent him to bed, but not before making sure he knew how to brush his teeth and that he had a blanket and pillow. He was to come over for breakfast whenever he got up, and Imani would start him on his reeducation while she worked on her designs.

He luxuriated in the hot water, applying liberal amounts of soap and both shampoo and conditioner. The warm spray soothed the throbbing ache where the metal arm met his shoulder, scar tissue thick and twisted. When he felt thoroughly clean he shut off the water and got out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He used the razor he had bought, trimming the growing stubble on his face until it was neat and short. He pulled the soft grey pants back on, not ready to give up their comfort. He searched through his bag for a clean black t-shirt, the only article of clothing he hadn't used yet. He had nothing to cover his metal arm but supposed he didn't need to hide it around Imani, as much as he hated the sight of it. He ran his flesh fingers through his hair, the drying strands lying in soft waves.

Satisfied, he wandered into the kitchen to feed Koshka, the cat jumping off the bed to follow him eagerly. That done, he opened her window so she could go out during the day. After checking that no one was coming down the hall he crossed to the other side, knocking softly on the door. Imani opened it with a small smile, ushering him in. He saw her eyes flick down to his uncovered metal arm but she said nothing, closing the door behind them with a click.

"Good morning, James," she said. "I hope you slept alright."

He nodded. "The blanket was very soft."

She quirked her lip. "I'll take that to mean you liked it."

He nodded again. 

"Alright, come help me make breakfast. I'll show you how I make the eggs taste so good."

He followed her into the kitchen, where she proceeded to show him how to crack eggs into the pan and cook them with butter, milk, salt, pepper, garlic, onion, curry, and shredded cheese. Imani narrated as she cooked, telling him exactly how to do each step as he watched intently. She let him make the toast by himself, James feeling proud of himself for accomplishing this small task. When the eggs were done he inhaled deeply, the smell making his mouth water.  

Imani smiled, passing him a plate. "Alright, let's eat."

They piled eggs and toast on their plates, James helping Imani bring the coffee, water, butter, jelly, and a jar of salsa to the table. He watched as Imani spooned the salsa over her eggs, shoving the jar to James.

"I don't know if you'll like it that spicy but you can try."

He poured a small spoonful over one section of his eggs, taking a bite. His eyes widened at the spice, which burned his mouth but filled it with tantalizing flavor. He nodded in approval, reaching to spoon more over his eggs as Imani smiled. 

"I guess now we know you like spice. That's good because Maria is Latina and I'm black so we both use a lot of spice in everything. I was worried you'd only be able to eat bland stuff."

He swallowed. "It's good. I can..taste it."

Imani cocked her head. "I'm guessing you haven't had actual flavorful food in years. Can I ask, what did they feed you in Hydra?"

He shifted, gesturing to the crook of his flesh arm. "Intravenous and MREs."

Imani shook her head, face twisted in disgust. "Fucking Hydra." She watched him contemplatively as he shoveled eggs into his mouth. "I know you're some sort of super soldier," she said carefully. "How much do you have to eat?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Hmmm. Well, just tell me if you're still hungry. And I hope we're not taking it too fast with new food after so long." She looked worried. "I really don't know anything about this stuff. Here's hoping your super soldier healing is enough to offset anything."

He shrugged. "I heal very fast."

Imani winced, pointing at him with a piece of toast. "I don't want to think about how you know that." She bit into it, James shifting uncomfortably as he buttered his own. He added copious amounts of jelly, the first bite flooding his mouth with sweetness. They finished their breakfast in silence, Imani looking deep in thought as she occasionally glanced at his metal arm.

When they finished, he helped bring the dishes to the sink where she washed them and he dried and put them away. She suddenly chuckled, watching him as he carefully set the last plate back on its stack.

"I have the world's deadliest assassin in my apartment putting away dishes," she said with an edge of hysteria.

He frowned, unsure how to reply. Imani wrung her hands together. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to-sorry. It's just kind of mind-blowing. If someone had told me a week ago I would be making breakfast for a brainwashed Bucky Barnes who's also the Winter Soldier I would have said they were insane."

He was bewildered. "I'm..sorry?" he said tentatively.

Imani flapped her hands. "No, no, you didn't do anything wrong, it's just-not something I ever expected. But I am so glad you told us, and you're letting us help. I wouldn't change that for anything."

He nodded uncertainly. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me. You deserve the world after everything Hydra put you through. Speaking of that, I have to get to work but you're welcome to stay. I don't want you being all by yourself in that apartment." She hesitated. "Do you have any interest in learning more about your past?"

He thought for a second before nodding. "Yes. I-I want-" he took a deep breath. I want to know who I was." It was the first time he had said he wanted something out loud, and it sent a spike of anxiety through him along with a feeling of defiance.

Imani smiled, her eyes glistening. "Of course. I'm proud of you," she added before turning. "I have a history book somewhere, why don't we start with that."

She moved to the living room, scanning the bookshelves. Finally her eyes lit up and she grabbed a thick book, setting it down on the coffee table.  _Captain America and the Howling Commandos: A Complete History,_ the book read. She blushed. "I told you I was kind of obsessed with you as a kid."

She sat down on the couch, gesturing for James to join her. She flipped to the table of contents, finding the chapter marked  _James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes_ and flipping to it. Small photographs interspersed the text, his own face staring up at him. Imani stared at them in wonder before looking up at James.

"Wow, I can't believe I didn't see it before. Your face is almost the same, except for the long hair." She paused. "You don't look like you've aged that much. Do you know how old you are?"

He shook his head. Imani looked thoughtful. "Well, you were twenty-seven when you...you know. I'm guessing you can't be more than a few years older now. Maybe twenty-nine?" She sat back suddenly, face distraught. "You're not much older than me. For gods sake, you're most likely not even thirty yet. You're so.. _young,_ and you've already been through a lifetime of horrors." She shook her head. "Fucking Hydra."

James thought about it. He didn't remember how long he had been out of cryofreeze cumulatively over the years. There was really no way to know exactly how old he was. The thought suddenly made him angry. They hadn't just taken his mind. They had taken everything about him and warped it in some way. He nodded his head, swallowing.

"Fucking Hydra," he muttered.

Imani's expression lit up, staring at him proudly. Then she glanced at her watch, sighing.

"Okay, I really have to get to work but I'm going to leave this here with you. That okay?"

He nodded.

"Great. I'll be at the kitchen table doing my artwork. Let me know if you need anything."

He nodded again and she got up, shooting him one last smile as she left. Finally he was alone with the book, anxiety mingling with excitement in his stomach. He began to read, committing the information to memory.  _James Buchanan Barnes, born the oldest of four to parents George and Winifred Barnes...._

The time passed quickly, James immersed in his history _._ His head had begun aching, memories pressing against the edges of his consciousness. Soon Imani was coming towards him, a tentative smile on her face.

"Hey, it's about lunchtime. You should probably eat something."

 He nodded, straightening up from where he had been hunched over the book. His shoulder protested at the movement, throbbing and tingling. He rotated it in its socket, trying to ignore the tearing pain. He pressed flesh fingers to the seam, prodding at stiff scar tissue. Looking up, he saw Imani watching him with a worried frown, gaze drawn to his shoulder.

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly.

He nodded, dropping his hand. Hydra hadn't cared if the arm hurt him, only if he was functional, so he had learned to ignore the constant pain, damaged nerves tingling and muscle and bone straining against the weight of the arm. He suspected his healing factor was the only reason his body could support it.

"Oh," Imani said. "Is that ...normal? Or is there something wrong with it?"

"Normal," he grunted.

Imani looked upset. "That's terrible. Is there anything I can do?"

He shrugged. He had no idea. It wasn't like he had been allowed to try and ease the pain.

Imani's expression turned contemplative. "Hmm. I can try giving you a heat pack after lunch. Come on."

He nodded, following Imani toward the kitchen. She showed him how to make turkey sandwiches and they ate in the kitchen, James putting away three before he felt full. Imani's artwork was still spread out on the table, sketches of figures moving in frames. James' hand hovered over the drawings, a familiar feeling tugging at him.

"Steve was an artist," he said quietly.

Imani drew closer. "You remember?"

He nodded. "Flashes. I remember him drawing me."

"That sounds like a good memory."

He nodded. "It was. He kissed me."

Imani froze, gaping at James. "What?!"

He frowned, not understanding her reaction. "He kissed me."

"But-you-what-" she sputtered. "You are Steve were together? Like, together together? Oh my god."

He was still confused. "I don't understand."

She took a breath. "Oh. Oh. Right. Well, you know how Maria and I are girlfriends? We're in love. It's like-it's like friends but more. Is that what you and Steve were?"

James thought about this. It seemed to fit with his memories. It explained the squeezing in his heart when he thought of Steve. Love. He nodded. "I think so."

Imani stared. "Oh my god. I knew it! I knew all those bigots were wrong. You guys lived in like the queerest neighborhood in Brooklyn. Even if you weren't gay, which apparently you were, you would at least be okay with gay people." She raised a fist in the air. "Take that, Fox News!"

James was staring at her in bewilderment. He understood about half of what she had just said, but had no idea what Fox News was or what she was talking about. "Did-did no one know?" he finally asked.

Imani blinked at him. "Of course no one knew. It was the 1930s. You would have been fine in your neighborhood but in the military if anyone found out you probably would have been dishonorably discharged."

James frowned. "Why?"

Imani stared at him. "You don't know why you would have been discriminated against?"

He shook his head. Imani blew out a breath. "Okay, so relationships between two men or two women were, sometimes still are...considered wrong. I won't even get into trans issues. Lots of people think love is only okay between a man and a woman. It's gotten a lot better, but there's still a lot of bigotry. We're able to marry in some states now but not all, and although people are more accepting on the whole we still face discrimination and hate from some. Does that make sense?"

He nodded. He still didn't understand why one relationship was considered right and others wrong, but he understood why no one had known about him and Steve. It would have been dangerous. He thought of Imani and Maria. Their relationship would be considered wrong, and Imani had said they still faced hate.

"Do you-do people-" he gestured to Imani, thinking of the word she used. "-discriminate against you?"

She nodded. "It's harder because I'm also black, so I face discrimination for that as well as being a lesbian. And Maria faces racism for being Latina and having an accent. There's still a lot of racism, sexism, and homophobia today so together we kinda win the oppression bingo. But it's better than it was even fifty years ago, and we're together, which is all that matters."

He thought about this. It sounded complex. It didn't make sense why people would hate others just for their race or who they loved, but he had a feeling that what Imani said was true. He had once protected Steve from bullies, this much he remembered. Maybe he could protect his saviors from the world.

"They will not hurt you," he said firmly. "I will not let them."

Imani smiled at him softly. "Thank you James. You're sweet."

He didn't know about that, but his mind was spinning. The revelation of what Steve meant to him alongside all the information he had read in the book was catching up to him. He felt pressure behind his forehead and his body sagged with exhaustion, the food he had eaten filling his veins with syrupy sluggishness. Imani studied him with fond eyes.

"How about we see what we can do for that arm?" she said. "Then I have to get back to work."

He nodded as Imani disappeared down the hallway to the bathroom. She emerged moments later with a small cloth covered bag, sticking it in the microwave and setting it to three minutes.

"A rice bag," she said. "You can put that on your shoulder and it'll hopefully help a bit." She paused. "How-how far up does the metal go? You don't have to answer. I just don't know what would help most."

He reached for his shirt automatically, pulling it over his head. Imani gasped, taking in the raised scar tissue where flesh met metal. Her hand reached out as if to touch before withdrawing. "Oh god," she whispered. She swallowed, collecting herself. "That looks painful. I don't even want to know how they attached it."

He put his shirt back on. "I don't know. I woke up with it." He shrugged. "Strangled a doctor before they knocked me out again."

Imani looked ill. The microwave beeped and she startled, turning around and withdrawing the pack. She handed it to James, the bag hot against his hand.

"Okay, just sit on the couch and place this on your shoulder wherever it hurts the most. Let me know if you need me to heat it up again." She smiled, shooing him into the living room. He went, lying lengthwise on the couch with his head and shoulders propped up slightly by pillows at the end. He set the pack tentatively against his shoulder, sighing in relief as the heat sank into the aching joint. The last thing he saw before his eyes fluttered closed was the history book lying open, his name written in large letters across the top.  _James Buchanan Barnes. My name is James Buchanan Barnes,_ he thought, sinking into sleep.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

_He was strapped to the table, the scent of sweat and blood thick in the air. A man in a white coat bent over his body, sliding a needle into his arm and taping it down._

_"No, please," he mumbled. A thin tube ran from the needle to a bag full of blue liquid. He knew what was coming. "Please. No."_

_"What is your name?" The man had greying hair and a starched uniform, hydra insignia prominent on his chest._

_"James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038," he slurred. The man hit a button, and blue liquid came rushing down the tube and into his arm. It tingled, then smarted, and then he was being burned alive. He screamed, back arching off the table and flesh and metal arms straining at the bonds. The pain was all consuming, his mind only filled with one thought. "Make it stop! P-Please, make it stop!"_

_The burning receded, Bucky panting and sobbing, tears running down his face. The man's face loomed over his again._

_"What is your name?"_

_"Jam-James Buchanan Barnes. S-Sergeant. 32-55-7038." he stuttered. The man pressed the button._

_"What is your name?"_

_"James Buchanan Barnes-"_

_"What is your name?"_

_"James-"_

_"What is your name?"_

_"Please."_

_"What is your name?"_

_His eyes were glazed and unseeing, lips silent. The man pressed the button..._

_He was strapped to the chair, white coats swarming around monitors._

_"What is your name?"_

_"James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038." his voice was hoarse and flat, eyes dead._

_Someone pressed a button. The metal halo descended, clamping onto Bucky's head as he suddenly came into awareness, straining against the cuffs. Then the pain started, and his world whited out._

_The pain stopped and the world returned, hazy and uncertain._

_"What is your name?"_

_"James..Buchanan...Barnes. Sergeant. 32557..."  Electricity jolted through him again._

_"What is your name?"_

_"James...Barnes...Sergeant...." The world dissolved._

_"What is your name?"_

_"Sergeant...James Barnes."_

_..."What is your name?"_

_"James...Barnes."_

_..."What is your name?"_

_"Bucky..Barnes."_

_..."What is your name?"_

_"Bucky."_

_..."What is your name?"_

_"I don't know."_

_He was strapped to the chair, the smell of electricity still in the air. He was gasping, his whole body trembling as aftershocks of pain shot through his head. A man stood next to him, a red book in his hand._

"желание. ржaвый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. добросердечный. возвращение на родину. Один, грузовой вагон."  _Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car._

_The soldier shuddered and twitched, his mind growing blank and body stilling as the man reached the end of the words. His eyes flicked up, calm and cold. The man closed the book with a snap._

"Добрый утренний солдат." _Good morning, soldier._

_"готовы соблюдать." Ready to comply._

Something shook his shoulder. He jolted awake, moving in one fluid motion as he flipped his assailant to the floor, metal hand around their throat and knife held in the other. Wide brown eyes stared back at him in shock and fear, one hand moving to pry at the hand around her throat. 

"James," she wheezed. "James, it's me."

He recoiled, releasing Imani and stumbling backwards until his back hit a wall. He was hyperventilating, small sounds escaping with every breath. He pressed back against the wall, hand still clutching the knife as he struggled to breathe.

Imani was getting up, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Hey. Hey, it's okay. You're okay. I shouldn't have woken you. Do you know where you are?"

He shook his head, mind hazy and breaths still coming too fast. "Я не знаю. пожалуйста."  _I don't know. Please._

"I don't speak Russian. We're in my apartment." 

He couldn't hear her words over the rushing in his ears, waiting for the punishment sure to follow. "пожалуйста," he repeated. "прости. пожалуйста."  _Please. I'm sorry. Please._ He dropped the knife, sinking to his knees and putting his hands behind his back as he trembled.

Imani rushed forward and sank down in front of him, hands fluttering but not touching him. "Whoa. Whoa. What is happening. James, it's me. You're safe." She fumbled, withdrawing her phone from her pocket and pressing a few buttons. "Okay, I have a translator app. Just say whatever in Russian and it'll translate."

"Я не понимаю," he said. "пожалуйста."  _I don't understand. Please._

Imani read her screen, face creasing in worry. "Okay, you're in my apartment. You came here this morning and fell asleep after lunch. You had a nightmare so I tried to wake you, which was obviously a bad idea. But you're safe. It's okay."

He struggled to comprehend her words, mind still buzzing with panic. Slowly, awareness came back with the lack of punishment, the world crystalizing before his eyes. He suddenly saw Imani in front of him, small and nonthreatening as she looked at him helplessly with wide eyes. He was in her apartment, he realized. There was no Hydra, no punishment. The events of the morning rushed back. He deflated, arms unlocking from behind him as he exhaled. He blinked, taking in the fading red marks on Imani's throat and feeling shame and horror curl inside him.

"я тебя обидел" he said. "Прости."  _I hurt you. I'm sorry._

Imani read her screen before shaking her head. "No, no. I'm fine. You barely hurt me at all. I know you didn't mean to."

He shook his head. "Прости," he repeated.

"James, do you know where you are?" Imani asked.

He nodded. 

"Okay, and you know who I am?"

He nodded again.

"Can you say it? Where you are and who I am?"

He frowned but complied. "Я в твоей квартире. Вы Имани."  _I am in your apartment. You are Imani._

Imani squinted down at the screen. "Okay, but you do realize you're still speaking in Russian, right?"

He hesitated. Vaguely he knew he was, but it seemed like there was a block in his mind, preventing him from speaking in English. He tried but nothing came out, his mouth opening and closing and stabbing pains piercing his head. He made a noise of frustration, shaking his head. 

"Я не могу."  _I can't._

Imani frowned in confusion. "You can't speak English?"

He nodded in defeat.

"Okay," she said. "That's okay. I can work with this. Can you get up?"

He nodded. They were still kneeling on the floor facing each other, James' body suddenly heavy and weak from the aftermath of the adrenaline and head pounding and fuzzy. He climbed to his feet smoothly from years of training, trying not to sway. Imani got up as well, giving him a once over. 

"How about you go sit on the couch again and I'll make us some tea?"

He nodded vaguely, moving to curl up in the corner of the couch, knees drawn up and aching forehead rested on them. He faded in and out of awareness, soft clinking emanating from the kitchen in the background. It seemed like barely a second later Imani's footsteps approached again, the scent of steaming chamomile tea reaching his nose. He raised his head, reaching across and taking the proffered mug with his flesh hand. The steam warmed his face and the mug burned under his hand, grounding him to reality. Imani settled on the other end of the couch, watching him with a concerned expression as she cradled her mug, translation app open next to her.

He took a sip, the warm liquid erasing the icy feeling inside his chest. His head was still aching, sharp stabs behind his eyes and in his temples and pressure against his skull. He brought metal fingers up to press against his temple, rubbing in small circles as he had the feeling he'd done before.

"Does your head hurt?" Imani asked softly.

He started to nod but pain burst behind his eyes and he stopped. "да," he said instead, closing his eyes.

"I would offer you Ibuprofen but I don't think it would have any effect on you."

He took another sip of tea. "нет."  _No._

"Is it the memories?"

He thought about it. "да. Воспоминания возвращаются, когда я сплю."  _Yes. Memories come back when I sleep._

"And you seem to be sleeping a lot. I'm guessing your brain is trying to heal itself. This is a good thing."

He hunched. "да. Но некоторые воспоминания не очень хорошие."  _Yes. But some memories are not good._

"I'm sure," Imani said, voice hushed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shuddered. "нет."

"Okay, but know if you ever want to I'm here to listen. No matter how terrible it is."

"Хорошо."  _Okay._

They drank their tea in silence, Imani watching him with worried eyes. He felt numb and empty, his mind blank and feelings deadened. He stared into the middle distance, not seeing his surroundings. A minute or maybe an hour later Imani was gently taking the mug out of his hand, James not even flinching at the sudden contact. He didn't know how long he sat there, but eventually Maria came in the door, the vague outline of her figure stopping when she saw him. She said something, but is was like she was speaking from far away. Imani came rushing over, whispering to Maria and eventually they both disappeared from view. Sometime after that both figures reappeared, sinking down on the opposite end of the couch. A warm voice reached his ears through the fog.

"James?"

He flinched. "My name is Bucky." His voice was hoarse and quiet, the English awkward on his lips.

"Okay. Bucky, are you with us again?"

He blinked slowly, his mind feeling like molasses. Maria and Imani were sitting across from him, concern lining their faces.

"Yes," he said quietly.

Relief was evident in the women's expressions. Maria leaned forward. "Okay, that's good. How are you feeling?"

He couldn't feel anything. "I don't know," he said. The fog still hung over everything, his brain and body numb.

"Alright, well at least you're talking in English," Imani said. "How's your head?"

He struggled to speak, not able to articulate what he was feeling. "I don't know."

"Alright, let's back up. Easy questions. Does your head hurt?"

"No," he managed.

"Okay, that's good. Does it feel...fuzzy?"

"Yes."

"Okay, that's good to know. Are you feeling kind of...numb? Detached?"

"Yes."

"Alright, that's okay. It's normal. Do you need anything?"

"I don't know."

"Okay. I can bring Koshka over...?"

"Yes."

"Alright, I'll be back. Maria will stay wth you." Imani got up, disappearing through the door. Maria turned to him.

"Ay, pobrecito. What did they do to you?" she murmured. He didn't answer.

Imani came back in, Koshka in her arms. She deposited the cat on the couch, where she made a beeline for Bucky. She nudged her way between his knees and chest, her claws pricking his skin. He brought his right hand up on instinct to stroke her fur, the cat settling against him. Imani squished back in next to Maria on the couch, sides pressed together and legs tangled. Her warmth against his chest settled something inside him and he took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Better?" Imani asked. He nodded, feeling starting to return. 

"What happened?" he asked hoarsely.

Imani frowned. "What do you remember?"

He thought for a minute and then spoke haltingly, voice rough. "I-I was in the chair, and he said...the words, and then I woke up-" He glanced at Imani-"and...I hurt you. And I couldn't speak...English, and my head hurt, and then....everything went..away. It's all...jumbled."

"That's pretty much what happened," Imani said. "You spaced out after the Russian thing for the rest of the afternoon; hours. I was getting pretty worried."

He frowned. Hours? 

Imani continued. "But what did you mean-you were in the chair and he said the words? What words?" Her brow furrowed. "Does it have to do with why you were speaking Russian?"

He nodded. "The Russians. They had..a red book. I go in the chair and then the handler reads the words, and my mind goes blank, and I'm the Soldier. And I say, I say..." The words stuck in his throat and he forced them out with a shudder. "готовы соблюдать. Ready to comply."

Both women looked horrified. "The words," Imani said slowly. "You mean like, trigger words?"

He nodded, looking down. "Ten words. Each had been burned into my mind. He would say them and I would become the Soldier."

"That's-that's-horrifying. They basically mind-controlled you."

"The Russians were better," he said quietly. "The Americans did not have the book."

Maria paled and Imani looked nauseous. Maria finally took a breath and looked up, seeming to compose herself.

"So, you remembered this and it semi-triggered you in your sleep?" Maria said. "Is that why you could only speak Russian?"

He nodded. "I think so. I wasn't the Soldier, but.."

"The memory was still there," Imani finished. He nodded. "I'm so sorry James-Bucky. You said you wanted to be called Bucky, right?"

He hesitated and then nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yes. My name is Bucky." It felt right, the final piece of a puzzle slotted into place.  _He was Bucky._

Imani and Maria smiled at him with damp eyes. "Welcome back, Bucky," Imani said. "Welcome back."

 


	9. Steve

Steve stared down at the file in helpless frustration. Natasha was right when she told him he might not want to pull on this thread. The file contained a fraction of what had been done to Bucky and what Hydra had made him do, but it was still enough to turn Steve's stomach. The detailing of how they had grafted the arm into Bucky's body, how painful and heavy it was. Diagrams of the chair where they had wiped Bucky's memories, erasing everything about him. Small notes about the Soldier's "conditioning," a euphemism for torture. Exaltations of the Soldier's pain tolerance, his obedience, his effectiveness. Dates of targets and a few brief mission reports, each one a blow to Steve's gut. Pictures of Bucky in cryo, his face peaceful for once. Steve had scoured the file for every shred of information, ignoring the pain it provoked. For all that it alluded to it only brushed the surface of everything that had happened to Bucky, only telling the beginnings of the Soldier in Russia. He didn't know exactly what tortures Hydra had put him through, or how they had treated him. He didn't know the details of all his missions, if he had fought back in any way. There was just so much he didn't know. Primarily, where Bucky was now. 

He knew in his bones that Bucky had dragged him out of the river. There had been a moment on the helicarrier, Bucky's fist poised to strike, when Bucky had hesitated. His eyes had widened with something like horror and recognition, and Steve had fallen into the water and woken up on the bank, drag marks in the sand and footsteps leading away. Bucky had saved him. He needed to find him so he could help him remember, help him recover from everything Hydra had done. And because he wanted Bucky back. There had been a hole in his heart since he watched Bucky fall off that train, something deep inside him shattered. He had put the Valkyrie down knowing he could have swum out, that there were other options; had closed his eyes as he pointed the nose down, his last thought that he would get to see Bucky again. But Steve had been dragged back to life in a brand new world, utterly and completely alone until now. To learn that Bucky wasn't dead, that the person he loved most in the world was out there somewhere kindled a fire in Steve's heart, desperation bleeding out of every pore. He  _needed_ to find Bucky. 

But Natasha was right again. He was a ghost. There had been no sightings of him, no rumors, nothing. It was like he had simply disappeared. Steve was still in DC at Sam's house, reading through the file in hopes it would point him in the right direction. Any direction. It had only been a week since the incident, but already Steve was chafing at the wasted time. Bucky could be in Europe by now, and they might never find him.

Sam suddenly strode in, his face grim as he faced Steve. Steve jumped up, prepared for the worst. Sam took a breath.

"Hey, I think you'll want to see this. They just found something in an old bank in DC. Looks like it was Hydra."

Immediately Steve was grabbing his shield, following Sam back out the door. He hopped in the passenger seat of Sam's new sedan, anxiety clenching his gut. 

"Who found it?" he asked as they drove.

"Someone saw a door open and looked around. Apparently it was a bloodbath inside. They immediately called the police, but Sharon managed to snag it for the CIA and kept it clear for us. Looks like a Hydra cell."

"And they're all dead?" Hope fluttered in his stomach.

Sam nodded. "Apparently." He looked over at Steve. "Don't get your hopes up. It might not be him."

Steve nodded. "I know."

Within a half hour they were arriving at the scene, the outside of the bank looking inconspicuous except for the yellow tape and black vehicle outside. As they pulled up Sharon straightened from where she had been leaning against the SUV, face unreadable. Sam and Steve got out, meeting her outside the door.

"Thanks for keeping it clear," Steve said. "I owe you one."

Sharon waved a hand. "You just singlehandedly exposed and brought down Hydra inside Shield. I think I owe you one."

"True. So, what do you got for us?" Sam asked.

Sharon sighed. "To be honest I'm not sure. Why don't you see for yourselves?" She lifted the yellow tape, ducking under it as Sam and Steve did the same, sharing worried looks.

When they were through the doorway they were immediately assaulted by the smell of decaying flesh. They covered their noses with their sleeves, trying no to breathe in. Ten people lay on the ground in various positions, five wearing uniforms with the Hydra insignia and five wearing white lab coats. All had been shot in the head, a neat bullet would right in the center of their foreheads. On a table lay various tools and four small metallic objects, one smeared with blood. Steve moved closer, picking up one of the objects. It looked like some sort of tracker. His heart leapt in his chest.  _Bucky._ He knew it. He had killed the Hydra agents and removed his trackers. That could be a sign that he was remembering who he was. At the very least, his allegiance didn't seem to lie with Hydra anymore.

He turned to Sam. "It's Bucky," he said. "I know it."

Sam looked dubious. "Maybe, but even if he did, Steve, this happened a week ago. He's probably long gone by now."

Steve sighed. "I know. But at least he's actively fighting Hydra. This is a good sign."

Sharon moved forward. "Well, then there's something else you should see." She led the way deeper into the bank, eventually coming to a vault with gold bars lining the entryway. As they entered the room total destruction met their eyes. Shattered screens were spread around the room, pieces of metal littering the floor. In the center of the floor was a frame as if something had been bolted to the floor. The safety deposit boxes lining the room had been dented by the force of the objects thrown into them. A sinking realization suddenly came over Steve as he looked at the rectangular shape of the bolts on the floor. He knew that shape from the diagrams in the file. The chair. He swallowed, feeling sick. The chair had been torn apart in so many pieces it was barely recognizable, but now Steve's eyes caught on a circular piece of the halo, a pronged paddle for electricity, a cuff for the chair. The sheer ferocity and strength it had taken to tear this apart spoke of deep anger and pain.  _Bucky, I'm so sorry,_ he thought.  _How did I let this happen to you?_

Sharon drew his attention, shaking him out of his thoughts. "There's a security camera in here. It's turned off now, but it might give us an idea of what was in here before."

Steve swallowed. "I already know. It was the chair."

Sam looked back at the wreckage, eyes widening. "Damn."

Steve turned. He needed to get out of here. "Sharon, can we get the security footage? I want to know exactly what happened."

Sharon looked shocked at his language. "Yeah. Yeah we can get it."

They left the room, winding to the front. A single monitor was in the corner, labeled "Vault." Steve turned it on, the screen displaying the wrecked room. He pressed rewind once, the screen blurring until it stopped, the image almost unrecognizable to the room they had just left and sound crackling through the speakers.

The chair stood whole and menacing, Bucky slumped in it with his shirt off and hands fisted in his lap. Two technicians worked on the metal arm, the soft hissing of welding audible as Bucky stared ahead blankly. Guards stood around the room, facing outwards with guns held loosely. Suddenly Bucky's head moved, a small twitch as he gasped. Then his face contorted in rage and he lashed out with the metal arm, throwing a technician across the room. Immediately the guards turned, guns trained on Bucky as he heaved, fists clenched and body tense before he seemed to slump, eyes growing distant. The barred door opened, the figure instantly recognizable as Alexander Pierce. He moved towards Bucky, raising his hands at the guards to stand down as more scientists and guards entered the room including Rumlow. Pierce tucked his glasses in his inside breast pocket, staring at Bucky.

"Mission report," he ordered. 

Bucky stared ahead with a vacant expression, shoulders hunched.

"Mission report, now," Pierce repeated.

No response.

Pierce approached him, leaning down to study his face. Then his left arm whipped out, backhanding Bucky across the face with a sickening _thwack_. Steve sucked in a breath. Bucky's head snapped to the side before slowly coming back, his face confused.

"The man on the bridge," he said hoarsely, eyes flicking to Pierce. "Who was he?" Steve felt his heart stop.

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," Pierce replied smoothly.

Bucky's eyes moved searchingly, his face distant. "I knew him." Steve felt like someone had taken his heart and squeezed. 

Pierce pulled up a stool, sitting down and staring at Bucky intently as Bucky's face tightened with something close to frustration. 

"You work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time. Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos. And tomorrow morning, we're going to give it a push. But, if you don't do your part, I can't do mine. And Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

There was a pause as Bucky tilted his head, blinking slowly. "But I knew him," he repeated, mouth tightening in a pained grimace and eyes vulnerable and lost.

Pierce paused a moment before getting up. "Prep him," he ordered to the techs.

"He's been out of cryo freeze to long," one of the techs murmured.

"Then wipe him, and start over." Bucky looked helplessly lost, mouth pressed in a frown and eyes filled with unnameable emotion. Two techs came forward, shoving him back against the chair. His breaths came heavier, face blank as he opened up his mouth for the mouthguard, glowering defiantly at Pierce. Cuffs snapped around his arms, his chest starting to heave and mouth clenched around the guard as he was forced back into the chair. The halo descended, metal clamps sparking with electricity as they lowered over Bucky's head and his face contorted in fear. They clamped around his head, and Bucky started to scream around his clenched teeth, his whole body shaking and taut with pain as Pierce turned and walked away, Rumlow trailing after him. The screams continued, on and on and on....

Sam pressed the power button, the recording disappearing. There was an intense silence, Steve clenching his teeth together and trying not to cry. He could see Sharon to his right with her hand over her mouth, eyes horrified; Sam was staring at Steve in concern, face distressed. Finally Sam tipped his head back, letting out a breath.

"That's-that's some real fucked-up shit, man. Seriously."

Steve didn't reply, staring at the blank screen in rage. He wanted to burn the place to the ground, smash the security tapes into a thousand pieces. Wanted to resurrect Alexander Pierce just so he could kill him again, slower than the gunshot wound he got from Fury. Bucky's words replayed themselves over and over, his face confused and vulnerable.  _But I knew him._ Bucky had remembered him, and they took it away again. They tortured him. That was why he had fought so hard against Steve on the helicarrier, desperately denying his words. Steve felt something inside him shatter.

"Hey man, you okay?" Sam asked. "That must've been real tough for you to see."

He nodded tightly. "I'm fine, Sam. It's Bucky I'm worried about."

"I know, but you gotta take care of yourself too. You just watched your best friend get tortured and brainwashed. That's gotta mess you up. It's okay to not be okay right now."

He sighed. "Thanks, Sam. You're a good friend. I'm sorry I dragged you into all this."

Sam scoffed. "Dragged? I volunteered. Don't you go getting all self-blaming on me. I'm a grown ass adult. I told you I would help, and I intend to stick to that. You ain't gonna scare me away."

Steve shot him a small smile. "Good." He turned to Sharon, collecting himself and taking a breath. "Can you save all the recordings?" Sam started to protest but he held up a hand. "I don't want to watch them. If Bucky gets charged with the Winter Soldier's crimes we'll need evidence that he wasn't acting of his own free will. Can I count on you to do this?"

Sharon nodded. "I'll make sure these stay safe. I promise."

Steve gave her a nod. "Thank you. Keep me updated if you hear anything."

"You know I will," she replied. "Good luck."

Steve and Sam turned away, venturing back into the clean, fresh air outside. Both drew in huge gulps, the scent of rotting flesh stuck to them. Sam turned to Steve.

"So, where next?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't know. But I doubt he's still in DC. If he does remember he might go back to Brooklyn. I think I might take Stark up on his offer to move into the tower. Although I don't know if he'll want me there after I tell him the truth."

Sam frowned. "What truth?"

"That the Winter Soldier killed his parents."

Sam whistled. "That's messed up. Look, just talk to him. I think he'll understand that Barnes was brainwashed. It wasn't really him."

"I know. But it's still his hands that did it and I'm not sure Stark will be able to handle that. I guess I'll have to tell him and see what happens."

"Sounds good. You know, if that offer holds I wouldn't mind staying in New York for a while. Been wanting to go there for ages."

Steve stared at Sam. "You'd do that? You'd come to New York just to help me?"

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, opening the car door. "Yeah man. What are friends for?" He waited till Steve had gotten in the other side before adding, "besides, I kinda like the idea of being an Avenger. Maybe Stark can make me some new wings."

Steve chuckled despite himself. "I'll make sure he gets you a new pair. Your last ones kinda got..."

"Ripped off by the Winter Soldier?" Sam finished. "Yeah, he's apologizing for that when we find him. That was not cool."

Steve had to smile, Sam's infectious humor able to make light of the worst situations. They drove back in silence, each lost in thought as Steve thought about what he was going to say to Tony. He was dreading it, but he didn't want to keep this from him. He deserved to know. Besides, even if he wanted to kill Bucky after he doubted he could find him. Bucky was a ghost.

When they got back Steve only spared a minute before picking up his phone, drawing a deep breath before he hit the call button on Tony's contact. Three rings later, the ringtone abruptly cut off and a familiar voice echoed through the speakers.

"Steve-o! How are things? Hear you caused quite a scene in DC, big middle finger to Shield. Gotta say, I'm impressed. Usually I'm the one pissing the government off. But what's up? You never call, you never write. What's a guy gotta do to get some love around here. Oh-" there was the distinct sound of fingers snapping-"are you reconsidering my offer? I've got a whole floor in the tower set up for you. You'll love it. Please say yes, there's only Bruce here and I can't irritate him and I'm going crazy-"

Steve rolled his eyes at Tony's prattle. "Tony," he said seriously.

"Yeah Cap? Something happen?" His tone was more serious, hearing the somber note in Steve's voice.

Steve took a deep breath. "I need to tell you something. You remember what happened in DC?"

"Yeah, it's kinda hard to forget," Tony said wryly.

"Not the helicarriers. Remember the guy I fought? With the metal arm?"

"Oh yeah, the Winter Soldier or something right? There's a mention of him in the data dump. Just something about some sort of Russian Hydra assassin that's been killing people for fifty years. Not sure I believe that. Dude would be kinda old right now, and he seemed pretty spry in the footage. Anyway, what about him?"

"He's real," Steve said. "They kept him frozen between missions so he hasn't really aged. But he's not-it's not what you think. He's not Russian. And he didn't do it willingly."

Tony sounded confused. "What? How do you know this? Not willingly? What does that mean?"

Steve sighed. "It's-it's Bucky."

There was silence on the other end. Then-"Wait, Bucky as in Bucky Barnes? Your long-lost friend?"

Steve swallowed. "Yeah. Hydra experimented on him during the war. When he fell....they must have found him. They brainwashed and tortured him. They wiped his memories. He didn't even know his own name."

"Wow. Wow, that's-wait, he  _didn't?_ Are you saying he does now?"

"Maybe. We fought, but I think he-he recognized me at the end. He pulled me out of the river, but then he disappeared."

"Wow. So your best friend got turned into a Hydra assassin and tried to kill you. That's insane. I'll have to go back and read those leaked files. So, you want my help tracking him down?"

Steve hesitated. "There's something you should know first. The Winter Soldier-Tony, the Winter Soldier killed your parents."

There was a heavy silence before Steve heard Tony blow out a breath. "Wow. I suspected their deaths weren't accidental but to hear it...I guess Dad wasn't really driving drunk."

"You seem...okay with this?" Steve said tentatively.

Tony chuckled. "Oh I'm definitely not okay with it. But its almost better to think that they got taken out because they were a threat to Hydra, instead of my Dad just being shitty. Now I can finally have some closure. I think I always knew, I just couldn't confirm it. I'm glad you told me, Rogers."

Steve blinked. Tony was taking this way better than he thought he would. "What about Bucky? Are you-can you deal with that?"

He heard a sigh on the other end. "I don't think it'll be easy, but yeah. Yeah. When I got captured by the Ten Rings it only took a few dunks in water before I agreed to build weapons for them. And that was when I had all my memories. I can't imagine what Barnes went through. I mean, seventy years." There was a pause. "My dad always told stories about you and Barnes. He thought the world of the guy. He always described him as the bravest soldier he'd ever met, with a wicked sense of humor and a protective streak a mile wide. That Barnes would never have killed my parents. So no, I don't blame him one bit; he was every bit a victim as my parents. I blame Hydra. If I help Barnes maybe we both can find some closure."

Steve was stunned. He thought that that was the most heartfelt words Stark had ever said to him at once. He felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

"I don't know what to say," he said. "That was-wow. Thank you, Tony. You don't know what that means to me."

He heard Stark clear his throat. "Well, thanks for telling me, Rogers. So, when do we start? You are moving back into the tower right?"

Steve smiled. "Yeah, if that's okay with you. I might bring a friend too."

"I've literally been begging you to move in for months. You could bring fifty people and we'd still have room. I'll start Jarvis on searching for any mention of Barnes."

"Thanks, Tony," Steve repeated. "I"ll be there as soon as I can."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n." The call ended.

Steve blew out a breath, turning to Sam who was sitting at the kitchen island with a brow raised. "He take it well?" he asked.

Steve nodded. "When's the soonest you can be ready?"

Sam grinned. "Man, I was born ready. We can head out tomorrow morning."

"Sounds good to me." Steve felt better now that he had a purpose, a destination. It was better than sitting here on their hands waiting for the smallest scrap of information. At least in the tower he'd have the best resources to find Bucky, and be closer to Brooklyn in case he went back there. It was time to go home.

 


	10. Chapter 10

He and Sam headed to New York the next morning, arriving at the tower around noon. Stark greeted them with enthusiasm, lighting up when Sam mentioned his wings and promising to build him new ones. He gave Sam and Steve their own floors midway up, the interior-surprisingly-decorated tastefully. Steve suspected Pepper had a hand in that. They were spacious, with a large living area, dining room, and kitchen; an adjoining hallway containing two bedrooms and a large bath. Every item Steve could ever need filled the floor, from the well-stocked kitchen to extra clothes and toiletries. A TV faced the a plush couch and armchair in the living room, blankets draped over the back. It had a homey feel, far from the sterile atmosphere of the rest of the tower. Steve thought that was a purposeful decision on Pepper's part, knowing he wasn't used to luxury. He made a mental note to thank her for this when he saw her. She was currently in Europe doing some business venture for Stark Industries, the man himself ill-suited for diplomacy.

As soon as Steve and Sam had unpacked their limited belongings and eaten lunch they met up in Stark's upper lab, where he was arguing with a tiny robot. Holographic screens filled the room, various feeds and information scrolling across them. Stark was waving a finger at the robot, whose metallic arm drooped sadly. When he heard Steve and Sam enter he straightened up, his face excited.

"Cap! Bird-Boy!" Sam scowled. "Jarvis found something already, might be your boy."

Steve's heart leapt with hope, beating double-time in his chest. "You found him?"

Stark grimaced. "Well, not exactly. He's like a ghost. But I think we found a mention. Someone saw him at the Smithsonian in DC. Jarvis, pull up the tweet."

The screen closest to them flickered, showing a twitter feed by one @mcflash22. Steve frowned in confusion. Stark raised his hand, scrolling down until he stopped on a particular tweet. It read:

" _Saw a guy that looked just like Bucky Barnes in the Captain America museum, if Bucky Barnes was a trash hobo with long hair #weird #justanotherdayinDC"_

Steve stared. Could it be him? His heart said yes. If so, then he was remembering who he was. Although the descriptor of "trash hobo" wasn't very encouraging. He turned to Stark. "How long ago was this?"

Stark sighed. "Five days ago now. Jarvis is still scanning, but this is the only thing he's found so far." His face creased in contemplation. "Hey, Jarvis, hack into all the security feeds around DC and search for Barnes around this time period using facial recognition. But use body proportion calculations from DC."

"Commencing search," Jarvis replied smoothly from somewhere in the ceiling. Screens flashed through security feeds until one stopped, a red square blinking around a grainy figure. "99% match for Sergeant Barnes," Jarvis said. "Location: Union Station, April 7, 7:00 A.M."

"Ah, there's our elusive trash hobo," Stark said, leaning in to study the blurry image. "This was only four days ago. Jarvis, play the feed."

The frame moved, Steve watching as Bucky went up to the ticket window. He couldn't see his face, only the grainy image of his back. He appeared to be wearing jeans, a jacket, and gloves, long hair spilling from under a baseball cap and duffel by his feet. He turned from the window and Steve caught a glimpse of his face as his eyes darted around the station nervously. He sat down on a bench, body tense and duffel clutched in one hand. After a few minutes he got up and Jarvis switched the feed to another camera, following Bucky's progress out of the station and onto a bus. 

He turned to Stark. "Can you trace where that bus went?"

Stark nodded eagerly. "Jarvis, find that bus route and follow Barnes."

An instant later there was an electronic ping. "Bus 2379 arrived in Baltimore at exactly 8:30 AM. According to security footage Sergeant Barnes disembarked and boarded bus 281 at 9:00. Calculating route....Bus 281 arrived in 30th Street Station, Philadelphia at 12:00 PM. Sergeant Barnes boarded bus 320 at 12:30 PM. Bus 320 arrived at 7th Ave. and 28th St. New York, New York at 3:00 PM. Security footage shows Sergeant Barnes heading South East before visual lost. Last known location Brooklyn Heights, 6:00 PM."

Steve felt breathless. Bucky was in Brooklyn. He had gone home. He turned to Sam.

"It's him. He remembers. It's Bucky."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I know how much you want this man, but don't get your hopes up. Just because he went to Brooklyn doesn't mean he's Bucky again. We don't know where he's going or what he's thinking."

Steve shook his head. "I know, Sam, but it's a sign. First the museum and now he's in Brooklyn. He must remember something." He turned to Stark. "Keep searching in Brooklyn. He's gotta be somewhere."

Stark nodded. "I'll do what I can. Unfortunately it looks like he's out of reach of any security cameras. I'm guessing he went to the more sketchy parts of Brooklyn if he's staying there. The trash hobo look doesn't really blend in in Brooklyn Heights." 

"It looks like he has money though. Probably from when he raided that Hydra cell in DC. And he's a trained assassin, I'm guessing he knows how to blend in," Sam remarked. "He managed to get from DC to New York easily in a single day and disappear. Who knows what he's going to do."

Steve grimaced. He just wished he knew what Bucky was thinking. Was he remembering, and going back to Brooklyn because it was home? Or was he the Winter Soldier, moving with ruthless skill as he disappeared into the streets of New York City? His heart said the former, his head was unsure. Could Bucky really throw off decades of brainwashing and torture after just one line from Steve? The only thing he had to go on was that Bucky had remembered him on the bridge, and saved him after the helicarrier. He had to trust that Bucky was in there somewhere.

Tony's voice broke into his thoughts. "So, I've been reading through the Hydra/Shield files that were dumped on the internet; there's only a mention of the Winter Soldier in Shield's files, and all it says is that he's a Russian assassin with a metal arm who's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years. I couldn't find the name Winter Soldier anywhere in any of Hydra's files. I don't know if they used another code, or they only kept paper copies. But either way, there's only the video of him attacking you on the bridge in DC. No one's seen his face or knows who he is."

Steve sighed. "I have a paper copy from the Russians, but I still have no idea about after that. The closest we got was a Hydra cell in a bank vault in DC. Bucky had killed everyone in it and destroyed the chair where they wiped his memories. There was security footage from after the fight in DC, and..." he couldn't finish, the words choking him.

"And it was seriously messed up," Sam finished for him. "About the most disturbing thing I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of shit."

Stark quirked an eyebrow. "I almost don't want to ask. But this may give us clues to his mental state."

Sam shook his head. "He freaking remembered Steve after the fight on the bridge. Lashed out at the doctors, was all confused and agitated. And fucking Alexander Pierce tried to tell him some bullshit about making the world safer, but he just kept saying that he knew Steve and looking like a kicked puppy. So Pierce tells them to wipe his memories again, which is about the most horrific thing I've ever seen. They freaking cuff him to the horrifying dentist chair thing and fry his brain with electricity." He shook his head again. "I had to turn it off after the first five minutes of screaming."

Steve gritted his teeth, trying to erase the sound of Bucky's screams from his brain. Stark looked horrified, face going pale. "Oh." He swallowed. "That's...worse than I could have imagined. How is he still even functioning?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm wondering that myself. That guy's head has to be a horror show. And I don't know how frying his brain like that didn't just turn him into a drooling vegetable. I mean, he was back the next day just as terrifying and deadly as before. Obviously his brain functions were still intact."

Stark was looking thoughtful. "Hmmm. I wish I knew exactly how it worked. I should get a neurologist in here, see what they think. If we could figure out what they did maybe we could reverse it somehow..."

"And bring Bucky back," Steve said, hope flaring in his gut. "I have the schematics for the chair, would that help?"

Stark's eyes widened. "You have the schematics? Why didn't you say so before? I can definitely take a look at those. Do you have any on the metal arm as well? That thing is impressive." He caught Steve's eye. "I mean horrifying. Horrifyingly impressive."

Steve sighed. "Yeah, let me just give you the file I have. See if you can get anything from it that I couldn't." He passed over the file, almost reluctant to have someone else read it. It felt wrong to have other people read about the horrible things that had happened to Bucky. The old Bucky would hate for anyone to see him so weak. But, he thought, the old Bucky was gone. If they wanted to help him they needed to pry into every aspect of his time with Hydra, no matter how horrible.

Stark scanned through the file, pulling out the chair and arm schematics and spreading them on the table. "Jarvis, scan these," he instructed. 3-D virtual images started to form of the two schematics, allowing Tony to study them from every angle. Steve had to tear his gaze away from the one of the chair, the memory from yesterday too vivid. Tony poked and prodded the images, muttering under his breath. Steve shot Sam a look, wanting to be anywhere but here.

"I think it's going to be a while. Why don't we come back later," he said.

Sam's face smoothed in realization. "Yeah, that's a good idea, man."

Tony waved a hand in their direction vaguely as they exited the lab, Steve blowing out a breath. Sam looked over.

"You okay?"

He nodded. "Just a lot to take in."

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll find your boy. Even I'm starting to think you're right about him, and I'm an eternal pessimist."

Steve chuckled. "Thanks, Sam."

"Nah, don't thank me. Now listen, you know any good places to eat around here? I'd kill for some Thai food right now."

Steve hummed. "I'm sure Jarvis would know."

They ended up walking a block to get Thai food at a cute little restaurant, the dim light inside helping them remain unrecognized. The quiet ambiance calmed Steve, the food deliciously spicy and filling. By the time they got back to the Tower it was evening, the lights of the city twinkling against the darkening sky. Tony was still working on the schematics, the metal arm now dissected into individual parts and a hologram of Bucky's chest floating next to it, the metal arm fused into his shoulder. Steve left a box of extra food on the lab table, Tony barely noticing him. Going back up to his floor he showered and brushed his teeth before pulling on sleep pants and a t-shirt, staring out the window at the city below. He wondered where Bucky was right now, if he was safe and warm. Was he sleeping in a bed or on the ground? Had he eaten? Here he was living in the lap of luxury and Bucky was out there somewhere, alone and afraid. He could see the Brooklyn bridge in the distance and thought that Bucky was somehow closer than ever and yet still out of reach. Sighing, he turned and went to bed, the mattress still too soft. He sank into a restless sleep full of memories, his hand reaching for Bucky as he fell down, down, down...

  


	11. Chapter 11

Steve woke the next morning with a start, his hand reaching out. It closed around empty air, the hole in his chest widening as he slumped back against the pillows. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to erase the last vestiges of his nightmare. Blowing out a breath he heaved himself up, padding into the bathroom. The clock read 6:00 in glowing red numbers, the light in his apartment still dim. He turned on the shower, ducking under the warm spray and letting it erase his worries for a few minutes, focused on the feel of the water against his skin. After a shower and a shave he felt more human again, dressing in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt and attempting to style his hair before heading to the kitchen. Sam was already there, humming a light song as the scent of eggs and bacon made Steve's mouth water. He walked in, Sam looking up from where he was scrambling the eggs and grinning.

"Hey man, it's weird eating breakfast alone when you're a floor away. Hope you don't mind."

Steve shot him a smile. "It's no trouble at all. I appreciate the company." He knew what Sam was doing, trying to make sure he wasn't alone with his thoughts. He appreciated it; Sam was the first person he felt like he had really connected to since he'd come out of the ice. He reminded him of Bucky with the way that he didn't take Steve's bullshit, how he could call Steve on it while still being supportive and kind. Sam's presence had been the only thing grounding him in his search for Bucky. Without him, he didn't know what he would have done. Sam's cool head counteracted Steve's fiery heart, not letting him rush off half-cocked on impulse. He had only known the man for two weeks, but he felt like it had been years.

He grabbed two plates and set them on the table, Sam bringing over the pans of eggs and bacon. Steve poured coffee for both of them, grabbing the slices of toast from the toaster. He piled food on his plate, his super soldier metabolism meaning he had to eat twice as much as a normal person. Sam had already adapted to his appetite, making sure to cook enough for both of them. Sam let him get most of the way through his plate before breaking the silence.

"So man, how you doing? It's been a rough couple of days."

Steve huffed a breath. "Yeah, you could say that." He looked up, meeting Sam's steady gaze. "But I'm doing okay. Really. Now that we're here I feel like we might finally make some progress."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "That's good. I think coming here was a really great idea. Not just for you but for Barnes as well. If-once we find him he's gonna need a lot more than just you or I can offer, and Tony has the resources to make it happen. This is the best place for both of you."

Steve sighed, nodding. Deep down he knew it wouldn't be simple to bring Bucky back, that he needed help Steve simply couldn't give. Love wouldn't fix the gaping holes in Bucky's memories, or erase the years of trauma he had suffered. As much as it hurt to admit, he couldn't just find him and expect him to be Bucky again without serious help. And maybe he never would be. Steve certainly didn't feel like the innocent, scrawny kid who got beaten up in back alleys any more. He couldn't expect Bucky to be the same person anymore either. Even if he never remembered Steve completely he would still help him, because he deserved to have a happy and healthy life after everything he'd been through.

Jarvis interrupted his musings with a quiet, "Captain Rogers, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Stark would like to request your presence in his laboratory."

Steve started, feeling a jolt of anticipation in his stomach. Had they found something on Bucky? He and Sam shared a look. 

"Jarvis, tell him we'll be there in a minute," Sam said. He gestured to the dishes. "We still gotta clean up."

Steve washed the dishes as fast as possible, eager to hear what Tony had found. The minutes dragged by agonizingly slow until finally, Sam was drying and putting away the last dish and they were ready to go. Steve almost forgot to put on shoes before Sam reminded him, doubling back in frustration. They took the elevator down to Tony's lab, Steve vibrating with energy. When they stepped in he saw Bruce standing next to Tony, talking quietly as holograms hung in the air around them. They turned around at their entrance, Bruce giving a small wave.

"Hey, good to see you again. Tony thought I might have some more input on these schematics. He filled me in on everything." He looked uncomfortable. "Sorry about your friend."

Steve nodded. "Good to see you, Bruce." He gestured to Sam. "This is my friend Sam Wilson. He saved my life in DC."

Sam reached out to shake hands with Bruce, grinning. "You must be Bruce Banner. I've heard great things. I was the one with the wings in DC."

Bruce gave a small smile. "Ah, so you're the one Tony's making the new wings for. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. So Docs, what's up? You find something?"

Tony moved forward, nodding. "We've been studying the schematics. I'm an inventor, not a biologist or medical doctor, so that's why I called Banner in to help. We think we understand how the chair works in a rough sense, but the real kicker is the arm." With a wave of his hand a hologram of a torso came up, the metal arm standing out in silver. "Now, this is what we see from the outside. The metal extends to just over his shoulder, covering part of his collarbone and scapula. But really.." He tapped something on his tablet and suddenly bones inside were visible, silver riddled all throughout the left side of the torso. "The arm is so heavy and awkward that they had to reinforce a lot of his skeleton around the shoulder to hold it. From their notes and diagrams it looks like they reinforced his left clavicle, scapula, sternum, and first three ribs with metal, including plates and screws. But I'll let Bruce say the worst part."

Bruce swallowed. "So, in order to actually attach the arm and make it so it wouldn't rip away when he used it, they literally welded it to his skeleton." He tapped out something, the arm disappearing until just a hollow shoulder socket remained, covered by metal. The metal extended halfway between the shoulder and the neck, curving down and around under the stump, extending almost halfway down the side of the chest.

"This is the first piece of the arm," Bruce continued. "It's fused into his skin and connects to the reinforced bones around the shoulder. They built off this piece, constructing the arm to slide over it like a real joint. The whole shoulder joint of the arm is made of metal, fitting into this metal socket. It sounds ingenious, but it's actually horrifying. According to the file, Barnes still had his shoulder joint when they found him. They had to remove the rest of his humerus, reinforce all these bones, and connect the metal piece to the reinforced clavicle, scapula, and ribs at strategic points."

He pointed at the areas on the diagram as he talked, various silver screws visible connecting the piece to bones. "They literally fused the first piece into his skin and made his entire shoulder metal, somehow connecting the necessary nerves for motion. There's got to be so much soft tissue damage, especially along the seam, that he must be in constant pain. When you add the weight of the metal arm-" he swiped and the arm reemerged, red points lighting up in the shoulder "-it pulls on all these bones and muscles, further straining his shoulder. He would have had to relearn his balance because of the extra weight on one side, and I think the only reason his body is even still supporting this is because of his healing factor. The soft tissue under and around his shoulder would be constantly tearing and healing, making it incredibly painful at all times. Who even knows how much nerve damage he has as well that might cause him pain, and how much he feels with the arm. Phantom limb syndrome is also a possibility."

Bruce took a deep breath, removing his glasses and looking tired. "Basically, the arm is definitely causing him constant pain of moderate to extreme severity. I won't even go into the extreme stress he put on it under Hydra. The pain would have been debilitating. They may have given him painkillers to make him functional, but we don't know for sure. I don't want to think about the alternative."

Steve felt sick. He hadn't even thought about the arm further than the fact that Bucky had apparently lost one. He hadn't considered that it in itself was torturing him, that he was in constant pain from the weapon that Hydra had welded into his body without his consent. He thought about the Winter Soldier, catching his shield with the metal arm. The arm stopping his skid down the road, fingers gouging the pavement. The arm moving with deadly grace as it swung at Steve, crashing into his shield. There had been no trace of hesitation in Bucky's eyes, no wince of pain. Had he been full of painkillers, or had he just been forced to ignore the pain? Steve desperately hoped for the former.

"Is there any way to fix it?" he asked, voice hoarse with emotion.

Tony and Bruce shared a look. "I don't know," Bruce said. "Maybe, but it's been so grafted into his shoulder I'm not sure we can separate it. And even if we do, we might not be able to give him a functional arm again. I guess we would have to wait and see what he wants."

Tony interjected. "In the meantime, I'm going to start figuring out if I can build a lighter version of the arm that wouldn't require the grafting. The whole reason why Hydra was using this technology fifty years ago and we still don't have working prosthetics today is that obviously their method is not exactly comfortable or feasible for a normal person. It not only causes extreme pain but would probably cripple a normal person, however it does allow you to make a working arm that's truly connected to the body. It's a fascinating conundrum. And Hydra obviously didn't care about the pain part and Barnes is enhanced, so his body could feasibly support it. If I could figure out how to make a working prosthetic without the negative consequences..."

He immediately tapped something out on his tablet, muttering to himself. Steve turned to Bruce. "Is there any way you can make painkillers for Bucky in the short term? His metabolism is probably similar to mine."

Bruce nodded. "While it would be better to know his exact chemistry beforehand I think I can make something that will do in a pinch."

Tony straightened up. "So, everyone ready for the next horrible piece of machinery?"

Sam looked over at Steve, giving him a questioning glance.  _You okay?_ Steve nodded, steeling himself. "Go ahead."

"Alright," Bruce said. The hologram of the arm disappeared, replaced by one of the chair. "This one is a bit more simple at first. These paddles-" he pointed to the rectangular pieces that Steve had seen clamp over Bucky's head-"are charged with electricity, which they then use to target specific areas of the brain, specifically his memory centers, the hippocampus and right and left temporal lobes. Basically what they did was create a state of pure retrograde amnesia for his episodic and semantic memories, while leaving his procedural memory still intact. That means he couldn't recall life events or any factual knowledge, but still had things like muscle memory and learned skills as well as the ability to retain new memories. They had created a blank slate with all the skills of a trained soldier who they could mold to their will and keep training."

Bruce paused. "But this is where it gets tricky. Because of his healing factor, it looks like his brain kept healing itself and he kept remembering things. So they would have to induce the amnesia again, but would lose all the training they had done and have to start over. Somehow they refined the process so he retained more of his semantic knowledge and some episodic for recently consolidated memories, meaning just his time in Hydra. Therefore he would keep waking up with the knowledge that he was the Winter Soldier and they didn't have to go backwards. There's also a mention of some type of trigger words they used, it keeps mentioning a red book to activate the soldier. It looks like they used this to recall the soldier after a wipe, like a sort of hypnosis that sent him into Winter Soldier mode when he heard those words. It's all very complicated, but the good news is that without the constant wipes, his brain will heal and he should get all or most of his memories back eventually. From what Tony said you saw at the bank and where he went after DC, his memories return at a very fast pace, especially when triggered by familiar stimuli. By now he may have recovered a fair amount."

Bruce gave them an encouraging smile. Steve was torn between horror at what Hydra had done and hope that Bucky's memories would eventually return. While his arm might never be fixed, he would eventually get his mind back. He already might, based on what they had seen. 

"Thank you, both of you," he said, gesturing to Tony and Bruce. "What you've done for Bucky already, it's-"

Tony waved a hand. "After poring over these schematics for hours I'm ready to burn every Hydra bastard alive for what they did to him. Anything I can do to help."

Bruce nodded. "Just looking at these makes me a little green. I can't imagine living through it. Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it."

Steve smiled, his fondness for Tony and Bruce growing. Tony could be a bit abrasive at times, but he was an amazing friend to have. And Bruce's compassionate nature and easy to understand way of relaying information set his heart at ease. Whenever he found Bucky, he knew he was in good hands. 

The rest of the day passed quickly. Tony and Bruce went back to work, Tony figuring out the arm and Sam's new wings and Bruce designing a painkiller that would hopefully work for Bucky's enhanced system. Steve and Sam talked for a bit, ate lunch, and then used the enormous gym in the tower where Steve proceeded to break three punching bags. After that he showered and changed, and he and Sam chatted a bit more before Sam showed off his cooking skills by making delicious chicken fajitas for dinner. They watched the third Star Wars movie, although Sam insisted it had to be watched first, and finally Sam retreated to his own floor and Steve flopped into bed, wide awake. Thoughts ran through his mind in circles, the holograms spinning in front of his eyes and Bucky's screams still ringing in his ears until at last he fell into an uneasy sleep in the early hours of the morning. 


	12. Chapter 12

The next day dragged by, no new developments to break the monotony. Steve and Sam ate and worked out and watched two more Star Wars movies, episodes five and six respectively. He helped Sam make lasagna for dinner, and they watched the news for any information, sprawled on the couch. It had been ten days since the incident in DC, and coverage was slowing down although rampant speculation remained. The data dump of Shield and Hydra's files had sparked much analysis and discussion, but was so extensive that it would take weeks to sort through it all. They showed the same brief grainy cell phone video of Steve fighting the Winter Soldier, his face covered by the mask and metal arm gleaming as he attacked Steve with ferocious grace.  _Who is the Winter Soldier?_ the news crawl asked. They had apparently made the connection between the video and Shield's mention of a metal-armed assassin called the Winter Soldier. Theories ranged from a defected KGB agent to a robot created by Hydra. None even came close to the truth, and none of them considered that he was anything but willing. Steve sighed, changing the channel. Another news station was showing pictures of him and Sam entering the tower, rumors swirling about who Sam was and if they were moving in. A reporter stood in front, questioning why they hadn't heard from Steve in the aftermath of DC and speculating on reasons. With a scoff Steve turned off the tv. He bid Sam goodnight and fell into bed, prepared for another sleepless night. 

He and Sam had just finished eating lunch the next day when Stark strode through the elevator, a serious expression on his face. Steve stood up, immediately concerned.

"Hey Cap, there's someone here who wants to speak to you. Says it's about the Winter Soldier."

His stomach dropped. "Is it Hydra?" he asked.

Stark shook his head. "I don't know. Apparently it's a woman. The receptionist would have just called security but she said the woman seemed serious. Just kept saying she needed to talk to you."

Sam stood up. "It could be a trap."

Steve shrugged. "Well, only one way to find out. Tony, have your suit ready." He was dressed in simple jeans, t-shirt, and boots but would easily be able to fight.

Stark held up his hand, a red piece of metal on his wrist. "Always."

"Alright. Where's the woman now?"

"Conference room A," Jarvis interjected smoothly, startling Steve and Sam. "According to my scans she is not carrying any weapons, but heart rate is abnormally high indicating distress."

"Let's go," Steve said. They took the elevator down to the first floor, Stark leading the way to conference room A. As they entered a young woman turned around, eyes widening. Her black hair was intricately braided and hung down her back, gold piercings in her ears. She was wearing ripped jeans spattered with paint, a white t-shirt covered by a red flannel, and beat-up white converse. Her brown eyes were wide and scared, hands wringing together in nervousness. She looked nothing like a Hydra agent.

"Steve-I mean Captain Rogers," she said breathlessly. Her eyes landed on Tony behind him, her expression becoming alarmed. "Mr. Stark."

"Who are you?" Steve asked. "You said you have information for me?"

The woman nodded. "My name is Imani Davis." Her eyes flicked over to Tony and Sam before coming back to Steve. "Can we speak alone?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Whatever you have to say you can say in front of them. You said it was about the Winter Soldier?"

Imani gulped, eyes flickering to Tony again. "It's about Bucky." Steve felt his heart stop in his chest.

"Please, you have to help him. He didn't want you to know but something's wrong and I don't know what to do."

Steve couldn't even process everything she was saying. He took a step forward. "What do you mean something's wrong? Where is he? How do you know all this?"

Imani took a deep breath, eyes watering. "He's been staying in the apartment across from us, and we've been helping him. He was-well, not  _okay_ but he was getting better, but then all of a sudden he started getting all these withdrawal symptoms but we don't know what from and he's just getting worse and it's horrifying and he said no hospitals but I had to do something." She finished in a rush, breaths heaving and eyes full of emotion. 

Steve was stunned. He wanted to ask about everything-why they were helping him, and how, and how they knew his identity, and if Bucky remembered- but focused on the most important part. He turned to Stark. "Get Banner. Have him set up the med bay."

Stark nodded, turning and jogging out the door. Steve turned back to Imani. "Where is he?"

"Red Hook. My girlfriend is with him now. We don't have a car so I took a cab here." She shifted, looking down. "I know he needs help, but he can't come here. Do you have a doctor that can go there?"

Steve frowned. "Why can't he come here? We can help him."

Imani swallowed uncomfortably. "I don't think Stark would be okay with that."

Something clicked in Steve's brain. "You know. You know about Stark's parents."

Imani nodded. "Bucky told us when I asked if we could take him to the tower. He was very upset. I don't think Stark will want to help him."

Steve shook his head. "No, it's okay, Stark already knows. He doesn't blame Bucky. He wants to help. This is the best place for him."

Imani looked stunned. "Really? I can't believe-but okay. If Stark is willing to help then Bucky should be here. He's in a bad way."

"What's happening?" Sam interjected. "You said withdrawal symptoms, right?"

Imani nodded. "I've seen a lot of addicts in my life. He started getting a really bad headache four days ago, and his arm was really hurting him. He was also sleeping a ton. Then came the agitation, anxiety, and insomnia and next was shaking, sweating, and throwing up. Everything seems to hurt but especially his shoulder. He kept deteriorating over the past few days until he couldn't get out of bed and he's been semi-conscious for two days. He started hallucinating yesterday, which was horrifying; I don't want to think about what he was seeing. I don't know what Hydra did to him but he's in real bad shape. I know he didn't want to see you yet-" she looked at Steve-"but I couldn't just let him suffer. I'm not even sure he could survive this without medical intervention."

Steve was horrified. He couldn't even put into words what he felt at hearing what Bucky was going through because of Hydra. It seemed Bruce was right about Hydra pumping him full of painkillers, but Steve had hoped it was true thinking it was the better option. It apparently wasn't any better at all.

Stark came flying back into the room, giving Steve a nod. "Bruce is getting the med bay set up and I've got an vehicle waiting for us. Let's go." He turned around again, Sam, Steve, and Imani jogging after him as they made their way to the garage. They piled into a waiting van, Tony behind the wheel and Imani in the passenger seat to give directions. Steve and Sam piled in the open back and sat on the floor, a stretcher already set up. Imani rattled off the address and Tony typed it into the GPS, accelerating out of the garage and onto the street with a squeal of tires. Tony drove as fast as possible, arriving at the run-down apartment building only 25 minutes later. He pulled up next to the curb directly across from the entrance, all four occupants jumping out as soon as it stopped. Steve and Sam grabbed the stretcher and Imani led the way up the stairs to the third floor, stopping at the first apartment on the right. She knocked, two fast raps followed by three slow ones. 

The door opened, a young woman with short dark hair looking relieved as she took in Steve behind Imani. She opened the door wider, face stunned when she caught sight of Tony and Sam. She glanced at Imani questioningly and Imani gave her a sharp nod back. She relaxed, stepping back and ushering them in.

Her voice was hushed. "I'm Maria, Imani's girlfriend. You must be Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, and...?" she looked questioningly at Sam.

"Sam Wilson," he said, extending a hand. "I'm a friend of Steve's."

Maria took it, looking at them all seriously. "Nice to meet you. Now, what do you intend to do to Bucky? Because I won't let you hurt him, or lock him up. I don't care who you are, I will fight you." Her eyes glittered with fierce protectiveness, sparking a warmth in Steve's chest and reminding him of his smaller self.

"We want to help him," he said. "I won't let anyone hurt him."

Maria studied him intently before nodding. "Okay, so what's the plan?"

"We're going to take him to the tower so he can get treatment," Tony said. "I've got Doctor Banner setting up the med bay right now."

Maria shot a glance at Imani but Imani shook her head. "Está bien. Él sabe y quiere ayudar," she murmured.  _It's okay. He knows and wants to help._

Maria took a deep breath. "Okay, he's in the bedroom. But we have to be careful. He's not really lucid."

She led the way down the hallway, Steve following close behind Imani. When they reached the door Imani repeated the sequence of knocks, holding her palm up in Steve's direction.

"Let us go in first. He's used to us, but new faces, especially yours, might freak him out."

Steve grudgingly agreed, impatient to see Bucky. Imani and Maria ventured in, voices low and soothing.

"Hey, Bucky, it's just us," Imani said. "Are you with us?"

Steve could hear labored breathing through the door, but there was no answer. Imani's head poked around the door again and she waved Steve forward.

"He's pretty out of it," she whispered as he followed her through the door.

He stopped dead at the sight of Bucky, a twisting feeling in his chest. Bucky was lying on a mattress, soaked in sweat as shivers occasionally ran through his body. His face was tightened in pain, teeth gritted and breaths shallow and labored. Long strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his face pale and deep shadows under his closed eyes. He was dressed in grey sweatpants but his shirt was off, revealed twisted scar tissue where the arm met his shoulder. His metal and flesh hands were fisted in the sheets under him, right knuckles white as he trembled and gasped, small whines escaping from between his clenched teeth.

"Bucky," he gasped quietly. 

Imani snapped him out of his shock. "Okay, how are we getting him up?"

He collected himself. "Sam and I can lift him onto the stretcher." Imani turned back to the door to get Sam as Steve moved towards Bucky, his trembling form giving no sign that he noticed him. He crouched down next to him, gently reaching out a hand to touch Bucky's flesh shoulder. Bucky jolted, the metal arm moving in the blink of an eye to grab Steve's wrist in a crushing grip before it was torn away just as fast, Bucky letting out a heart-rending scream as he clutched his metal shoulder with his right hand. Tony and Sam suddenly rushed into the room, staring wide-eyed as Bucky's head pressed back against the pillow, muffled screams still emitting from between clenched teeth and face whitened in pain as flesh fingers contracted against his shoulder. The cries died away as his chest heaved, eyes squeezed shut. Steve felt ill, quickly stumbling away to give him space.

"Sweet Jesus," Sam said softly, tone horrified. 

Maria moved forward to crouch by Bucky's side, close but not touching. "Bucky?" she said softly. Bucky's eyes fluttered open, turning dazedly until his eyes found hers, breaths still labored. He made a small sound, eyes confused and glazed. "Bucky, no one is going to hurt you," Maria said. "But we need to touch you to move you. Do you understand?"

Bucky's mouth opened, eyes feverish. "Wher-go?" he breathed.

"A safe place. They're going to help you. But you need to trust me."

Bucky's pained eyes searched her face before he gave a shaky nod against the pillow. Maria waved a hand for Steve to come closer and Sam and Tony wheeled in the stretcher, folding it down and placing it next to the mattress.

"Okay, Steve and Sam are going to help you onto the stretcher."

Bucky squinted upwards. "Steve?" he slurred.

The corners of Steve's mouth lifted in a wobbly smile. "Yeah Buck, I'm here." Sam gave him a nod from where he stood near Bucky's feet. Carefully, telegraphing his movements, Steve reached to take Bucky's shoulder again. Bucky flinched slightly at the contact but didn't react, eyes falling shut again. On a count of three between them Steve grabbed Bucky's shoulder and arm while Sam picked up his legs, lifting him slightly and dragging him onto the stretcher. Bucky let out a strangled whine as they set him down, face creasing in pain.

Steve and Sam each took an end, raising the stretcher. Bucky was panting where he lay, eyes darting around wildly without seeing. Steve and Sam maneuvered the stretcher through the door, Tony leading the way. Imani suddenly darted off across the hall as they made their way to the living room, returning a minute later with a cat carrier, black fluff visible inside.

She caught Tony's questioning glance and nodded to the carrier. "Bucky's cat. We can't leave her."

Steve was bewildered but didn't press, focusing on getting Bucky out. They made their way out of the apartment, the two flights of stairs seeming endless. Tony threw open the doors of the van, Steve and Sam loading the stretcher carefully onto the floor. Maria and Imani climbed in the back, sitting down beside Bucky.

"You just try making us leave," Maria said. A small mew from the carrier next to Imani seemed to echo her sentiment.

Steve just shrugged, climbing in to sit on the other side of Bucky as Sam hopped in the front. Tony started the van and pulled away smoothly, taking care not to jolt its occupants. Bucky seemed to be unconscious again, chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths and eyes moving rapidly under his lids. He looked so pale and fragile against the stretcher, mere inches from where Steve sat. He was here, real and solid in front of Steve, nothing like the ephemeral ghost of Steve's dreams. He ached to reach out and touch him, to reassure himself that he was real, but remembering the last time he refrained. Bucky obviously didn't like to be touched, and Steve could understand why. He was sure any physical contact he'd had from Hydra over the years was anything but positive. They rode in silence, Steve watching Bucky like a hawk for the entire thirty-minute trip. Part of him was afraid that if he looked away Bucky would disappear. Imani and Maria were watching Bucky as well across from him, their hands clasped tightly together and Imani's head resting on Maria's shoulder. Steve felt a pang of something close to jealousy.

Tony pulled into the underground parking garage, stopping in front of the door to the tower. Sam came around to take the far end of the stretcher, helping Steve to heft it out of the van. They moved quickly, Tony opening doors for them and telling Jarvis to alert Bruce. They took the elevator to the med floor, everyone squished together in the small space. Bruce was waiting for them when the doors opened along with Helen Cho, a brilliant geneticist and doctor who Tony trusted. She hurried forward as they carried Bucky in, scanning him with clinical eyes. 

"How long has he been like this?" she asked.

"It started four days ago but he's been this bad for two," Imani replied.

Dr. Cho nodded curtly, ushering them towards the bed that had been prepared. Steve and Sam unfolded the legs of the stretcher, setting it next to the bed before repeating the procedure from before to haul Bucky from the stretcher to the bed. Bucky's eyes fluttered open at the motion, taking in his surroundings. His gaze landed on Dr. Cho and Dr. Banner as they approached and his face contorted in terror, chest heaving as he began to hyperventilate. 

"No, no, no, no," he choked out, eyes darting around wildly. "No, please-"

"Hey, Buck, it's okay," Steve said. "They're here to help you."

Bucky shook his head. "No-I don't want-please-no-" his breathing picked up even more, eyes blown wide with terror until his struggles grew weaker and he slumped, eyes rolling back in his head as he passed out.

Bruce and Helen jumped forward, pushing Steve and Sam back and quickly drawing a vial of blood before inserting an IV into the crook of Bucky's right arm and taping it down. Three different lines ran into the port, filled with different fluids from the bags hanging from IV stands next to the bed. A heart rate monitor was attached to Bucky's finger, the screen next to the bed lighting up with his vitals. Dr. Banner was bent over the arm, requesting scans from Jarvis as Dr. Cho placed the vial of blood in the centrifuge. Tony retrieved his tablet and moved beside Bruce, pulling up the old schematics of the arm while Jarvis ran scans, comparing the two with muttered words as deft fingers manipulated the images.

Banner turned to look at them. "He'll probably be out for a while and we need to figure out what's going on. We'll let you know when you can see him." His voice was kind but firm, brooking no argument. Steve didn't want to let Bucky out of his sight but part of him knew he needed to let the doctors work.

"Come on," Sam said, placing a hand on Steve's shoulder. "You can't do anything now."

Steve nodded reluctantly, shooting one last gaze at the still figure before turning to leave with Sam. Maria and Imani followed, faces drawn. Sam led them to his floor, immediately starting to run the coffee maker while Steve, Maria, and Imani all sank down at the table, Imani placing the cat carrier in front of her. Steve cleared his throat, looking at Maria and Imani.

"So, you said you were helping Bucky? How did that happen?"

Imani took a breath. "Well, it all started when he moved in a week ago..."

 


	13. Bucky

Bucky woke slowly, hushed voices meeting his ears. A soft beeping picked up as he emerged from a heavy fog, the voices stopping. 

"Bucky?" A voice asked.

He opened his eyes, lids heavy and sluggish. A face swam into view above him, features blurry but familiar.

"Steve?" he croaked. He blinked, vision clearing slowly.

"Yeah Buck," Steve said, a smile growing across his face. Bucky's mind felt muddled and foggy. Where was he? Why was Steve here? The white ceiling above him was unfamiliar, but the feeling of a needle in his arm and monitor on his finger was anything but. The beeping picked up, anxiety swirling in Bucky's stomach. Where was he? Another figure approached in his peripheral vision. Turning his head to the right, he saw a man in a white lab coat approaching and terror consumed him. Hydra. Steve was nothing but a hallucination, one he'd had over and over until Hydra erased it. The man was drawing closer, face worried as Bucky froze against the bed, heart pounding in his chest and breaths shallow.

"Bucky?" The Steve-hallucination said worriedly. "Bucky, it's okay, you're in the tower." Bucky ignored him, used to his hallucination's reassurances. Hallucination Steve always said he was there to rescue him, but it was never real. Never.

The man stopped a few feet away, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Sergeant Barnes. I'm Dr. Banner. I'm not going to hurt you."

More lies. They always hurt him. He stayed frozen, the monitor beeping rapidly as he watched the doctor with wide eyes, breaths coming shorter. The Steve-hallucination leaned further over him, face concerned.

"You're safe, Buck. It's okay."

"No, no, no, no," he whispered. He shook his head. He wasn't safe. "No, please, no, I don't want-no-" He moved to rip the needle out with his metal arm but the Steve-hallucination grabbed his arm. He lashed out with his metal arm, knocking the not-a-hallucination-agent-that-looked-like-Steve to the floor before ripping out the needle and throwing himself off the bed, ignoring the pain that flashed through his body. He crashed to the floor, legs barely supporting him before he scrambled up, moving into the far corner of the room and pressing his back against the wall. He was trembling, breaths coming in gasps as his gaze flitted around the room, scoping it out. Panic numbed his brain, the only thought  _get away._ There appeared to be three agents and the doctor between him and the door, the agent he had hit approaching slowly with raised hands, speaking soothingly. He couldn't hear him through the ringing in his ears, his vision tunneled.

"Bucky, it's me. It's Steve," the Steve-agent said.

"You're not real," Bucky muttered, trying not to look at him. "You're not real. You're not real." It wasn't really Steve. It was just his mind playing tricks on him.

Suddenly one of the other agents moved forward in front of the Steve-agent, something familiar in her appearance.

"Querido," her voice broke through the haze. "Querido, he's real. It's me. You're safe." Something about the Spanish endearment pulled on his mind, something about it safe and warm. He studied her face, vision clearing until he could make out her features. Confusion creased his brow. Was this a trick?

"You're in the Avengers tower. It's April 15, 2014. We brought you here yesterday because you were very sick. Do you remember?"

He thought. He had flashes of everything hurting, lying on his bed wracked with chills. Steve's face. The doctor from before. They seemed like a dream, shrouded in fog. Were they real?

"You-" he said. "I-" He shook his head, trying to clear it.

"I'm sorry. I know you didn't want to come here but we had no choice. You were in a bad way."

"But-" he glanced at the doctor, who was watching him carefully from a good distance away. -"But, you said-why-" Why would she give him to the man in the white coat? Doctors only existed to hurt him.

Maria followed his gaze. "This is just Dr. Banner. He's here to help you."

Bucky shook his head, eyes fixated on the white coat. "No-no-no doctor. No. Don't want-no. Please."

Dr. Banner's eyes suddenly widened and he stripped off the lab coat, Bucky flinching at the motion. He raised his hands placatingly. "I know doctors have done terrible things to you, but I'm not that kind of doctor. I promise, I'm not going to hurt you."

Bucky eyed him suspiciously before turning in confusion to Maria. She nodded. "No one is going to hurt you. Remember I asked you to trust me?"

He nodded. She gave a small smile. "Then trust me on this. You're safe here. You're not with Hydra. No one is going to do anything you don't want."

His heart rate started to slow, the world trickling back in. His eye caught on Steve behind Maria.

"Steve?" he asked cautiously. "Are you-you're real?"

Steve nodded, eyes wet. "Yeah Buck. I'm real." His smile was blinding, his face open and honest.

Bucky exhaled, tension bleeding out of his body. Suddenly he swayed, pain rushing back in full force and his legs threatening to buckle. "Oh," he said, placing his hand on the wall for support. Steve tensed like he wanted to move forward.

Maria placed her hands on her hips. "Now get back in bed before you fall over," she scolded. Bucky looked at the bed in distaste, the screens and tubes too reminiscent of Hydra. Maria shot him a look and he nodded. 

"Okay." He tried to take a step forward but stumbled, and suddenly Steve rushed forward, grabbing his arm before he fell. Bucky tensed for a moment, Steve's eyes widening as he realized what he'd done. He released Bucky's arm like it burned him, stepping back. Bucky swayed again without the support, the world spinning.

"You can't give a guy a hand?" he muttered, not knowing where the words came from. Steve, however, lit up like Christmas, hope and joy shining from every pore. He shifted closer slowly, eyes cautious as he reached towards Bucky. Bucky threw his right arm over his shoulder, Steve's arm coming to wrap gently around his waist. The contact didn't bother him as much for some reason. He leaned on Steve heavily as they made their way across the room, Steve depositing him on the bed. He sank into it gratefully, the back tilted up enough that he was semi-sitting up. His left shoulder throbbed. Steve moved to his left side as Dr. Banner approached, Bucky still eyeing him warily.

He gave Bucky a small smile, posture unthreatening and wearing a plain blue button-up and black slacks, no lab coat in sight. "Hey, my name is Bruce. I would really appreciate it if you didn't freak out on me because then we'd have a bit of a problem on our hands."

Bucky stared in confusion. Bruce elaborated awkwardly. "Well, I kind of turn into a giant green rage monster whenever my blood pressure goes up so it'd be great if everyone could just remain calm." 

Bucky nodded slowly, still bewildered. Giant green rage monster? At least the doctor didn't seem threatening.

Bruce held up the needle he had ripped out of his arm. "So, can we put this back in? It's just a painkiller, fluids, and an antibiotic. It'll just make you feel a bit better but nothing else."

Bucky nodded hesitantly. Bruce put a new needle on, holding it above the inside of Bucky's elbow. "Okay, just a small pinch." He looked up again for confirmation, Bucky giving him a sharp nod, body tense. Bruce pushed the needle in smoothly, the pain barely registering but Bucky sucking in a breath. He waited, but there was only a cool trickling through his veins, pain starting to fade. He relaxed, exhaling. The shakiness and pain that had plagued him since he woke up subsided, Bucky's head falling back against the pillow as he sighed. It was the first time in days that his shoulder hadn't burned with pain, and he hadn't been consumed with restless anxiety.

"Better?" Bruce asked. He nodded. "I'm not surprised," Bruce said. "This is a pretty strong dose of painkillers. You were having some pretty serious withdrawals from the stuff Hydra had you on. You still are."

Bucky squinted up. "What?"

Bruce sighed. "They had you on a pretty hefty narcotic to dull the pain in the arm, some sort of stimulant, and a Lithium-like mood stabilizer. All three were tailored to your metabolism, so that's why it took a week for their effects to wear off and withdrawal to set in. Just cutting off all three cold turkey had some pretty serious effects on your physical and psychological health. I put you on a similar painkiller to help with the narcotic withdrawal and because it's obviously necessary for your pain, but we're letting the other ones run out for obvious reasons. Those don't have serious physical withdrawal symptoms, but you will probably experience some depression, lethargy, and mood swings. It's going to be hard, but you should be fine now that you're getting treatment. Does that make sense?"

Bucky nodded, taking in the information. He remembered IVs in whenever he wasn't on a mission. That must have been what they were doing. It made perfect sense. They wanted him functional without the debilitating pain of the arm to distract him, and the stimulants increased his focus and decreased any fatigue, making him even more efficient. The mood stabilizer was probably to control him, making him less likely to become erratic and unstable. The fact that they had kept him hooked on these drugs was just another leash Hydra held. He couldn't escape them without becoming weak and helpless. He felt a surge of anger. 

"Alright, I'll leave you alone for now. Just don't take out the IV again," Bruce said. "I'm leaving the heart rate monitor off, but let someone know if anything changes. You'll probably fall asleep again, but that's okay."

Bucky nodded and Bruce gave him another smile before leaving the room, the door closing softly behind him. Steve moved back around to Bucky's right side, Imani and Maria coming up on his left.

Imani smiled down at him. "Hey. Feeling better?"

Bucky nodded. "It doesn't hurt," he said with mild surprise. "Nothing hurts." He felt floaty and weightless, his body free from pain for the first time since he could remember.

Imani smiled. "That's wonderful." Her face turned serious. "You really scared us."

Maria nodded, taking Imani's hand. "Ay, querido, you were so bad. I thought we were going to lose you."

"So did I," Steve said. "I thought I had already lost you." His eyes filled with tears.

Bucky felt a fondness tugging at his heart. He turned hazy eyes to Steve. "You ain't gettin' rid of me that easily." The words flowed from his mouth easily, instinctively.

Steve choked, a tear slipping down his face. "Bucky," he whispered. He searched Bucky's face. "You remember me?"

Bucky frowned. "Yes. Some. Enough. It's all...jumbled. I don't know."

Steve smiled. "That's okay. It'll come back. All I care about is that you're here, and you're safe." His face was earnest, hand resting on the bed next to Bucky. Bucky tentatively reached out, covering Steve's hand with his own. Steve sucked in a breath, eyes filling with tears again. His hand was warm and smooth under Bucky's, the comforting presence of Maria and Imani on his other side. Bucky felt safe and sleepy, eyes starting to drift closed. 

"Stay with me?" he mumbled.

Darkness rushed to meet him, awareness fading. A whispered word followed him down into sleep, soft and fervent.

"Always."

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

He awoke briefly some time later, blinking awake to see Steve slumped in a chair next to his bedside, hand still holding Bucky's and head resting on the bed, fast asleep. He closed his eyes and drifted back off, peaceful and calm.

The next time he opened his eyes he managed to stay awake, feeling rested and comfortable. Steve was still asleep with his head next to their entwined hands, his face smooth and peaceful as he breathed evenly. Something moved in his peripheral vision and he looked up to see the man with wings from DC enter the room quietly, a cup in his hand. He stopped in surprise when he saw Bucky's eyes on him, face unreadable.

He paused, taking in the scene before continuing forward cautiously until he stood at the end of the bed.

His voice was hushed, eyes meeting Bucky's evenly. "Hey man. My name is Sam Wilson. I'm Steve's friend. You remember me?"

Bucky nodded. "Sorry about your wings," he said hoarsely.

Sam grinned. "You don't have to apologize, but thanks. How you feeling?"

"Nothing hurts anymore," Bucky said. 

"Yeah, that's Bruce's concoction. You probably feel pretty great right now, but don't push yourself. Without the drugs you'd still be in a world of hurt."

Bucky nodded. "Okay."

Sam gestured with his head to where Steve lay, still asleep. "He hasn't left. I'm glad he finally got some sleep, since he didn't at all last night. He's very stubborn."

Bucky nodded in agreement. From what he remembered, Steve was extremely stubborn. "How long?" he asked.

Sam looked at his watch. "You've been asleep most of the day after you woke up this morning. It's 4:00 in the afternoon."

Bucky blinked. "Oh." 

"You need anything? I was just coming to check in and give Steve some coffee but it doesn't look like he'll need it now."

Bucky thought. The only thing bothering him right now was that he didn't have a shirt, and he was chilly. "Cold," he said.

"You want a blanket?"

He nodded.

Sam walked over to the row of cabinets and rifled through them until he found a white blanket, bringing it over to Bucky. He hesitated.

"Your right hand seems to be trapped under a super soldier and you're not supposed to move the left right now. Is it okay if I place it over you?"

Bucky nodded. Carefully, Sam went to his left side and draped the blanket over him, taking care not to hit Steve or touch Bucky. The soft blanket felt good against his skin and helped alleviate the chill that always suffused his bones. 

"Thanks," he said softly.

"No problem man. Just let me know if you need anything else."

He nodded again and Sam gave him one last smile before exiting the room, silence falling once more. Bucky occupied the time by watching Steve sleep, his blonde hair falling over his forehead and lips slightly parted. He looked peaceful and young. If Bucky unfocused his vision, he could almost pretend they were back in Brooklyn, Steve small and slender; innocent and untouched by war. Although many individual memories had yet to return, Bucky could recall most things from their life during that time. He knew that he had met Steve as a kid and they had grown up together, falling in love as teenagers and remaining a couple until Bucky's "death." He knew that Steve's mom's name was Sarah, and she had died when Steve was 18. He knew that he had four younger siblings, but could only remember the name Rebecca, the other faces blurred in his memory.

But most of all, he remembered how he felt about Steve. When he looked at him he felt something warm in his chest, a deep devotion that defied words. He knew he would go to the ends of the earth to protect Steve, even from himself. He wondered how he had ever forgotten him. Steve was light and truth and righteousness, everything Bucky was not. He had been becoming the Winter Soldier since Hydra first captured him in Azzano, Zola's handiwork like a stain that wouldn't come off his soul. He remembered nightmares after Azzano, something cold settling in his chest as he ran faster, saw clearer, healed better. He had known that Zola had done something to him, but he never said anything. Even thinking about it had terrified him. But the war finished what Zola had started. He remembered doing the dirty work that Captain America couldn't, killing men without a second thought. He became cold, detached, the world viewed through the scope of his sniper rifle.  _Protect Steve._ It had been the only thing keeping him going after Azzano. He would have taken his honorable discharge and gone right back home if Steve hadn't been there. Instead he had followed Steve, because there was really no other option for him.  _Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?_ He would have followed Steve anywhere.

Now they were both here, in the future. They had both stared death in the face and came out the other side. But Steve had come out still clean, still pure and righteous and brave. Steve was not as innocent as he had been before the war, that was true, but he was still  _right._ Still good. Bucky's hands dripped with blood, his soul irrevocably blackened and twisted. Steve deserved better than him, shouldn't be holding a hand that had murdered countless people in cold blood. He could feel the blood on his hand tainting Steve's and yanked it out from under him as if it burned.

Steve woke at the movement, blinking sleepily at Bucky. "Buck?" he croaked. He sat up, yawning as he ran a hand through his hair. "How long have you been awake?"

Bucky started to shrug before thinking better of it. "Not long," he said.

Steve checked his watch, eyes widening. "4:00? I've been sleeping for hours. Why didn't anyone wake me?"

"Because you need sleep, Rogers," Bucky replied. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

Steve's face melted, eyes lighting up with joy. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Nothing hurts," he repeated. He still didn't know how to answer that question sufficiently. "I do have to piss like a racehorse," he said, all the fluids finally catching up to him.

Steve chuckled. "Okay, I think it's okay to get up as long as you don't take out your IV. Do you need some help?"

Bucky sighed but nodded. He hated feeling helpless. Steve carefully peeled back the blanket, Bucky sitting up with effort and swinging his legs around to the right. Steve offered his arm and Bucky scowled but grabbed it, supporting himself as he slowly stood up. Steve grabbed the IV stand in his other hand as they started to walk, Bucky's legs shaky but functional. It was a short walk across the room to the adjoining bathroom, but it seemed to take an eternity at their slow pace. Finally Bucky was inside, letting go of Steve and grabbing the IV stand as he shut the door behind him. He managed to stand on his own long enough to use the bathroom, glancing at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. His face was pale, dark circles under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. His hair was messy and stringy with sweat, sticking to the back of his neck and laying in untidy strands over his face. He wet his flesh hand and ran it through the limp strands until they lay more tidy. Satisfied for now, he pulled open the door, the IV stand unwieldy and annoying. Steve met him on the other side, hovering as Bucky used the stand for support as he walked back across the room more steadily. He got back in bed, sitting up against the pillow and pulling the blanket up to his chest with his right arm. Steve sat back down on the chair next to his bed, watching him with barely disguised concern. His gaze landed on the blanket.

"How'd you get that?" he asked. "I don't remember that happening."

"Sam," Bucky said. "You were asleep."

"Oh. So you met Sam?"

"Yes. I apologized for his wings."

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Buck," Steve said hurriedly. "It wasn't you."

Bucky raised his eyebrows slightly. "Yes it was."

"But you weren't in control. You didn't have a choice." Steve sounded choked up.

Bucky paused. "I know," he said quietly. "But I did it."

Steve just looked at him sadly. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could Dr. Banner entered the room closely followed by a woman. Both were wearing casual clothing, and Bruce smiled when he saw Bucky awake.

"Sergeant Barnes, nice to see you. Jarvis said you were awake."

Bucky frowned. "Who is Jarvis?"

"Oh, sorry. Jarvis is the AI that inhabits this building. A virtual robot basically. He keeps track of everything. Don't be alarmed if you hear his voice come from nowhere."

Bucky was still slightly bewildered but didn't press. Bruce came closer, gesturing to the woman beside him. "This is Helen Cho. She's the other doctor that has been helping you." Bucky eyed her warily, nodding. He still wasn't comfortable with the idea of doctors.

"It's nice to officially meet you, Bucky. How are you feeling?" Dr. Cho asked.

"Nothing hurts," he reiterated. Steve looked over at him, brow creasing.

"That's good," Bruce said. "It looks like the pain meds are working. With that in your system and the time elapsed you shouldn't be feeling the withdrawal much more. You were also very dehydrated, but the fluids should have taken care of that. You're good to be out of this bed provided you don't move your left shoulder much and keep taking the pain meds as well as eating and drinking regularly. Helen made pills you can take that are tailored to your chemistry so we remove the IV." He held up a bottle. "Twice a day, morning and night." He passed the bottle to Steve. "I expect you should feel better soon but we'll still need to keep you under observation, especially since you're coming off of the stimulants and mood stabilizers. That sound good?"

Bucky took in this information, feeling relief that he wasn't going to be helpless for long. He nodded. "When can I leave?"

Steve looked stricken. He swallowed. "You want to leave?"

Bucky was confused. "I have an apartment." 

Steve relaxed slightly. "You don't have to go back there. You can stay here so we can help you."

Bucky shook his head vehemently. "No, no. I can't. Stark-"

"Wants to help you," Steve finished. "He doesn't blame you."

"But, I-I-" he couldn't finish the sentence.  _But I killed his parents._

"It wasn't you," Steve said firmly. "Please, just-stay. Please."

Bucky looked into his eyes, so pleading and hopeful, and couldn't refuse. When had he ever been able to refuse Steve? He nodded reluctantly. Suddenly he had a thought and his brow furrowed.

"What about Imani and Maria? And Koshka?"

"Imani and Maria went home after they knew you were going to be okay, but they're going to come back and see you as soon as possible. They brought your cat here, she's in my apartment right now."

Bucky relaxed. Koshka was here, and Imani and Maria thought it was okay. Maybe he could stay for a little while. 

"Ready to get out of this bed?" Bruce asked kindly. Bucky nodded. Steve stood up and pulled the chair away as Bruce approached, Helen in tow. "Okay, Helen's going to remove this IV. That okay?"

Bucky nodded. Helen stopped the flow of liquid, grasping the needle and removing it in one smooth motion. Bucky didn't even flinch. When it was out he let out a sigh of relief, glad to be rid of it. Bruce looked down at a tablet in his hand.

"Okay, Jarvis says your vitals look good. You should be all set for now. I'll let Steve get you settled in, but I'll be checking in periodically. Make sure you take you first dose of the painkillers tonight. As always, let someone know if something changes."

Bucky nodded. "Thank you." Both Bruce and Dr. Cho gave him warm smiles before leaving again. Steve approached. 

"Ready to go?"

Bucky nodded. "Where?"

"My floor. If that's okay with you," Steve added hastily. "It's huge, and there's two bedrooms so you can have your own room. Your cat is in there somewhere, but I think she's hiding right now."

"Okay." It sounded adequate. He sat up and got out of bed, slightly more stable than the last time. Steve hovered, but Bucky was able to walk without support. He let Steve lead the way to the elevator, padding after on bare feet. Steve pressed the button, the doors sealing. After a few seconds of claustrophobia it stopped with a chime. When the doors opened it was to a large, comfortable-looking apartment with an open floor-plan, spacious living room visible to the right and kitchen on the left with a central hallway set back from the two. The carpet was soft and plush on Bucky's bare feet, the apartment warm and cozy. Steve set his pill bottle on the dining room table next to the kitchen, hands shoved in his pockets awkwardly and hair still sleep-mussed. 

"So," he said. "This is it. Maria and Imani said they'll bring the few things you have later, but this place honestly has everything you could ever need. There's clothes in your room if you want. Here, I'll show you which one is yours." He waved a hand, venturing down the hallway as Bucky followed silently. There was a bathroom partway down on the left with a door opposite it. "This is mine," Steve said. He continued on a few feet until they reached another door on the left. "And this one's yours." He hesitated. "Do you...want to take a shower? Or at least change?" His eyes flicked to Bucky's bare chest, lingering on his scars for a second. 

Bucky nodded. "Shower." Definitely. 

"Okay," Steve said. "Well, there's towels and soap and everything in the bathroom." He checked his watch. "Sam wanted to come over for dinner, is that okay?"

Bucky nodded again. 

"Great. Okay, then I'll just be...out there then." He gestured awkwardly to the kitchen. Bucky raised an eyebrow and he finally turned, hastening away. Bucky made a beeline for the bathroom, the inside much bigger and nicer than the one at his apartment. Stripping off his pants he turned the water on as hot as it would go, stepping under the blistering spray with a sigh. He used the assortment of different soaps, shampoos, and hair products, erasing the accumulated sweat and grime of the last few days. When his flesh fingers started to prune he got out, wrapping a fluffy towel around his waist. He trimmed his beard using a safety razor from a package in the cabinet, his face looking more normal in the mirror. Padding down the hall into his bedroom he rifled through the clothes neatly stacked in the dresser, pulling on a pair of black boxer briefs and grey sweatpants, a black long-sleeved shirt covering his chest and most of the arm. He ran his flesh hand through his hair, yanking at the snarls until it was smooth. Damp strands tickled his face, Bucky continually brushing them out of his eyes in annoyance. Finally, satisfied with his cleanliness, he made his way down the hallway to the kitchen, where Sam was standing at the stove, Steve at the island. Neither of them heard his soundless approach, their backs turned to Bucky. Steve was in the middle of talking to Sam, a note of distress in his voice.

"-but Sam, I have no idea how to help him. I couldn't even pull him out of his panic when he woke up. In fact, I just made it worse. Instead, it was someone who's known him for a week who managed to get through to him. He obviously doesn't trust me."

"I used to hallucinate you." The words fell from Bucky's lips without thinking, having crept up until he stood on the other side of the island across from Steve. 

Steve and Sam whirled around, Sam clutching his chest with wide eyes. "Jesus, what are you, a cat? We should get you a bell."

"What?" Steve said, face stricken. 

"That's why I didn't think you were real," Bucky said. "I used to hallucinate you. Every time, you would rescue me, you would say I was safe now. But then I would wake up..." Bucky swallowed. "And it was never real."

Steve looked like Bucky had just punched him in the stomach. Pain lined his face, guilt and sadness warring in his eyes. Even Sam looked horrified, swallowing uncomfortably as his gaze flitted from Bucky to Steve. Steve's mouth opened, his words choked.

"Buck, I'm so sorry-I"

"It's not about you, Rogers," Bucky said flatly, regaining his blank mask. 

Sam nodded his approval from behind Steve. "Your boy is right, Steve. Not everything is your fault."

Steve looked pained but nodded, looking down. He blew out a breath before looking up at Bucky, feelings tucked away behind a similar mask. Bucky thought they were quite the pair.

Sam interrupted their awkward silence. "So, Barnes, you hungry? Banner said since you're recovering to start slow with bland foods. I made some plain chicken and rice if you're up for it."

Bucky nodded, suddenly starving. "Yes."

Sam grinned. "Great. Alright, Steve, want to get the plates?"

Steve nodded, breaking out of his sad demeanor. He grabbed plates and silverware, Bucky grabbing glasses like he had learned from Imani and Maria. They set the table, two plates on one side and one on the other. Bucky sat at the lone seat as Sam brought the food over, sliding into his seat as Steve placed the water pitcher on the table and sat down next to him. When they had poured their water Bucky accepted the pitcher, filling his glass and taking large gulps to quench his parched throat. He refilled it again, taking a small sip before moving on to food. Steve finished piling the chicken and rice on his plate, passing it over to Bucky who did the same. As soon as he was done he dug in, stomach clenching in hunger.

Sam hesitantly interrupted his inhaling of the meal. "Uh, don't punch me but you should probably eat slower and like, not too much at once. You've been throwing up for days and this is the first food you've eaten in a while."

It made sense, but Bucky did not like it. He sighed, purposefully taking small, slow bites as he stared at Sam. "I hate you," he said flatly. The small show of autonomy made him feel better.

Sam chuckled. "You'll thank me later when that doesn't come up again."

Steve had a small smile on his face as he ate, watching Bucky. "This reminds me of how I was after I was sick as a kid. Used to shovel in food like I was starving. Bucky always had to tell me to slow down."

Bucky's lip twitched, vague memory rising to the surface. "You were a stubborn punk," he murmured.

Steve's smiled broadened, eyes lighting up. "You remember?"

Bucky shrugged his right shoulder. "Some. Not specific. Just...in general."

Steve nodded. "That's great. I mean, even I don't have a lot of specific memories. They all kinda blur together after a while. But that was true. I was a stubborn punk." He smirked, eyes fond as he stared at Bucky.

"Was?" Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.

Sam laughed, pointing at Bucky. "You know, I'm really starting to like you."

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

_He was kneeling, hands behind his back as reddish sweat dripped to the floor in soft plinks. He was trembling, muscles burning with exhaustion and legs numb. A man strode in circles around him, watching him carefully. He breathed shallowly, trying to stay as still as possible. His head pounded and he swallowed, mouth dry and tongue swollen with thirst. His right hand slipped on the wrist on the metal arm and he lost hold of it for a second, fingers cramping and slick with sweat._

_The blow came with unerring swiftness, the switch cutting a fresh line of blood along his back. He cried out, collapsing onto his hands and knees. Another blow followed._

_"Вставай, солдат."_  ' _Get up, soldier.'_

_He pulled himself back up, gripping the metal wrist with his flesh hand tightly as he clenched his jaw, hot tears slipping along his cheeks to mingle with sweat._

_"У Гидры есть только заказ. И порядок приходит только от боли," the man snarled._ ' _There is only order with Hydra. And order only comes through pain.'_

He awoke gasping for breath. He turned his face into the pillow, squeezing his eyes closed. A soft tap against his cheek startled him and he jerked, eyes falling on a small black form in the dim light. Koshka. He exhaled. The cat blinked at him from where she stood inches away from his face. He turned his face back into the pillow, a heavy ache in his chest. He felt Koshka settle against his stomach, Bucky laying on his right side with his metal arm resting limply against the mattress. The clock on his nightstand read 3:00 in bold red numbers and Bucky felt helpless frustration well up in him. The nightmares had come almost every night since he escaped from Hydra. The ones during withdrawal had been the worst, vivid hallucinations that had left him screaming and pleading. The only time he hadn't had them was in his drugged sleep at the tower. He pressed his face harder into the pillow, left shoulder aching slightly. He had taken the first dose of pills the night before, but they weren't as strong as the IV had been. When Bruce checked in he had clarified that they were only to dull the pain, not to knock him out like the IV. And while Bucky appreciated not being drugged out of his mind, the constant pain of his shoulder had returned, if only a dull throb compared to the fiery agony of before.  _Order only comes through pain._ No, Bucky thought. Pain only comes from pain.

He must have drifted off again, for he was startled back into awareness by a soft rap on his door, ajar so Koshka could come and go. 

"Bucky?" Steve's voice asked. "You awake?"

Bucky didn't have the energy to get up and open the door. Speaking also seemed like too much effort. He lay where he was, staring into the middle-distance. 

The door creaked. Bucky couldn't see the door from where he lay perpendicular from it, but he heard soft footsteps making their way over to him. Steve's concerned face entered his vision as he crouched down next to the bed, peering at Bucky. Bucky blinked at him tiredly, Koshka raising her head from where she was curled to inspect Steve curiously. 

"Buck?" Steve repeated. "What's wrong?"

He struggled to form words. "Tired," he pushed out hoarsely.

Steve's brow creased. "You're probably still recovering. I'll let you rest; I just came to give you your pain meds."

Bucky felt far away. "Wha' time is it?"

"Eight o'clock. Every twelve hours, remember?"

He nodded against the pillow vaguely.

"Okay, you're gonna have to sit up. I have your pills and a glass of water right here." Steve held them up.

Bucky levered himself up with effort, body feeling heavy and uncoordinated as he took care not to move the metal arm, letting it rest in his lap as he sat up. He held out his flesh hand and Steve uncapped the bottle, shaking a pill into it. He quickly popped it in his mouth and accepted the glass of water from Steve, chasing it down. He handed the glass back to Steve, who set it on the nightstand with a gentle clink. Kohska stretched from where she had been dislodged and approached Steve curiously. Steve reached out a tentative hand to stroke her dark fur, the cat melting into the caress.

"She's adorable," Steve said, "and so sweet. She obviously loves you."

Bucky said nothing, watching as Steve continued to scratch behind her ears, a small smile on his face. Finally he looked up.

"Are you hungry?"

Bucky frowned before nodding. He could eat. Steve stood up, backing away so Bucky could get out of bed while Koshka jumped down and twined herself around his legs. Bucky pushed himself out of bed, body stiff with disuse. He followed Steve to the kitchen, Koshka trotting after them. Steve opened the fridge and withdrew an open can of cat food, setting it on the counter with a wry smile at Bucky.

"She's been with you all night so she's probably hungry. Wouldn't leave your side. It's a good thing we stocked up on all the cat supplies yesterday while you were out, since it doesn't look like she's going anywhere."

Bucky nodded, going through the motions of feeding Koshka automatically as Steve started cooking breakfast for him. Soon a simple meal of eggs and toast was in front of him, Steve sitting opposite him at the table nursing a cup of coffee.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asked finally.

Bucky shrugged with his right shoulder. "Tired," he repeated.

"Do you want to go back to sleep?"

Bucky shook his head. "No."

He felt Steve studying him intently as he took bites of toast without tasting it. "Nightmares?" Steve asked softly. Bucky swallowed, nodding without looking up. "I get them too," Steve said. "I mean, not as bad as yours probably, but I understand."

He hated the fact that Steve, his Steve, got them as well, but a part of him was relieved that he wasn't the only one. He had thought he was going crazy.

After breakfast Bucky curled up on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a blanket and with Koshka purring on his lap. Steve sat opposite with a sketchpad and pencil, looking up every so often at Bucky. They sat in comfortable silence only broken by the soft shushing of Steve's pencil over paper. They could almost be back in Brookyln if not for the modern apartment and the changes the years had wrought on both of them.

Sam came in around noon and they ate sandwiches for lunch, Sam seeming to understand that Bucky didn't want to talk and not pressing him. Bucky returned to his place on the couch afterwards, snuggled into the softest blanket he could find with Koshka reprising her role as lap-warmer. Steve returned to the other corner of the couch and continued drawing while Sam read a book in the armchair. Warm and safe, Bucky soon felt himself drifting off, his cheek resting against the soft fabric of the couch.

_He twisted and spun and kicked as he fought, mind blank and focused on the twelve opponents who attacked him from every side. He moved with vicious grace, blocking blows and sending men flying with a sweep of his metal arm. He was tiring, his hair damp with sweat and muscles burning after hours of rigorous training. One of the men got a hit in, sweeping his legs out from under him. He landed hard on the cement floor, winded. The agents backed off, a man in a starched uniform coming forward, hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the soldier in disgust._

__"Вставай, солдат," he ordered._ ' _Get up, soldier.'_  The soldier complied, rising to his feet in a smooth motion, head bent in submission. The man studied him for a moment before grabbing his right hand and snapping his index finger. The soldier made no sound, staying still. The man snapped each finger one by one, the cracks resounding off the walls. He dropped the soldier's hand and _ _gestured to the agents. "Продолжать. В Гидре нет места для провала. Есть только порядок. И порядок приходит через боль." 'Keep going. There is no room for failure in Hydra. There is only order, and order comes through pain.'_

_The agents advanced again, coming at him with brutal force as he tried to defend himself, his right hand useless. They overpowered him, raining down blows as he curled on the ground, protecting himself with his metal arm. Still the hits came, his rips snapping under vicious kicks and blood splattering the floor as his mind was consumed with pain..._

He woke with a gasp, sitting up straight as he heaved for breath, eyes wide with terror. He could still feel the pain from the beating echoing through his body, the memory of feeling his fingers snap one by one seared into his brain.

"Bucky, hey, Bucky, you're okay. You're in my apartment. You fell asleep and had a nightmare," a steady voice said. He clutched his right hand to his chest and curled around it, not willing to look as he focused on breathing. His vision cleared, Steve visible on the other end of the couch, his face distraught. Sam was still sitting in the armchair past him with an expression of calm concern. He took deep breaths, willing his heart rate to go down. 

"You know where you are?" Steve asked. Bucky managed a jerky nod, still clutching his right hand to his chest. "That's good. Did you do something to your hand?"

Bucky made a small noise of distress, not wanting to look at it for fear of what he would see. He could still feel each one snapping, the crack echoing. Sam got up, moving towards the couch slowly. "Hey man, can I have a look?"

Bucky shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut before cracking them open and watching in trepidation as he slowly uncurled his hand. His breath hitched as the fingers straightened...whole and undamaged. The breath rushed out of him suddenly, his whole body relaxing. It was just a dream. He flexed his hand, wiggling the fingers deliberately to try and erase the lingering sensation.

"It looks okay to me," Sam said carefully. "Bad dream?"

Bucky nodded. 

"You wanna talk about it?"

Bucky shook his head before hesitating. Reaching over with the metal hand without moving the shoulder, he mimed breaking his flesh fingers one by one.

Sam's eyes widened. "Someone broke your fingers?"

Bucky nodded.

"That's gotta be pretty awful to remember. You did good with the moving them. Helps you connect to reality. Remind yourself that you're here, and you're safe."

Bucky said nothing, hunching his shoulders. Steve was watching him from the other end of the couch, looking like someone had just kicked his puppy as Sam retreated back to the chair. Bucky felt drained, an ache in his chest and the adrenaline rush wearing off, leaving him weak and shaky. Koshka was nowhere in sight, probably off exploring the apartment, and he felt lost without her grounding weight. He wrapped the blanket around himself tightly to ward off the feeling of vulnerability.

He stayed that way for the rest of the afternoon, wide awake. Steve and Sam stayed with him, a comforting presence reminding him that he wasn't alone. That he was safe. Later, Imani and Maria came over for dinner, Bucky relaxing at the familiarity. As much as he knew Steve and Sam was nice there was still a history and awkwardness there. He had tried to kill both of them at one point, after all. With Imani and Maria he didn't have to pretend. They had also been the first ones to treat him with kindness after Hydra, and he instinctively trusted them. Maria insisted on helping Sam cook, the two bonding automatically over food as they fought over the cooking. The cloud that had hung over Bucky lifted just a little, sunshine peeking through. He managed to talk a little during dinner, Imani and Maria keeping him engaged with easy conversation. Even Steve seemed to be enjoying himself, positively elated when he heard that Imani was an artist and questioning her all dinner. Bucky felt more settled than he had been since he first arrived at the tower, the lingering anxiety over being in this unfamiliar place dissipating with Imani and Maria's reassuring presence.

Exhaustion set in after they had left, the constant social interaction difficult for Bucky. He took his next dose of pain medication at eight, his shoulder starting to throb again, and then headed to bed, bidding Steve good night as Sam headed for his own floor. He piled blankets on his bed and climbed in as Koshka curled up next to him. The warm blankets and Koshka's rumbling purr threatened to pull him under but he lay awake for hours, afraid to fall asleep. He finally succumbed around midnight, eyes slipping closed and body relaxing into the blankets.

 


	16. Chapter 16

After another night spent fighting nightmares Bucky got up early, showering as Steve made breakfast. He dressed in clean, comfortable clothes, becoming attached to the soft pants-sweatpants, Steve had called them. Sam ate breakfast with them and Bruce came up to check on Bucky, making sure he was taking his pills and healing. He had noted Bucky's irregular sleep patterns and constant fatigue, explaining that it was normal after a trauma, and that his brain needed the sleep to heal. It made sense, but Bucky felt no better. He had just left when another figure burst through the elevator doors. Bucky tensed immediately, body ready for a fight as Steve and Sam whirled around, identical looks of surprise on their faces.

"Houston, we have a problem," the figure proclaimed, waving a tablet. Steve and Sam relaxed, but Bucky stayed tense. There was something familiar about his face...

He looked past Steve and Sam, meeting Bucky's eyes. "Hey, Tin Man, good to see you up and about," he continued. "But you're not going to like what I have to say." Suddenly the face clicked. Tony Stark. Bucky felt his heart constrict, the memory of Howard's face crushing under the metal fist threatening to choke him. He stared at Stark, frozen in place with horror.

Steve looked back at Bucky, his eyes widening in realization. "Buck," he said. "It's okay. He knows. It wasn't your fault."

Bucky shook his head, still staring at Stark. 

"What he said," Stark replied. He waved a hand. "The whole 'World War Two vet tortured and brainwashed for seventy years' thing kinda makes it hard to blame you. I'm actually working on making you a new arm right now. So, we good?" 

Bucky stared, stunned. He didn't blame him? Steve had said so before, but he hadn't believed it. Deep down he thought Stark had only let him stay because Steve begged him, and that was why he hadn't seen him yet. He had never expected Stark to forgive him, much less make him a new arm. He met Stark's eyes, searching them for anger or resentment. All he found was truth, and a calm understanding. He nodded hesitantly, dropping his gaze.

"Okay, now that we've all hugged it out metaphorically, I have bad news." Steve and Sam perked up, looking worried. Stark took a deep breath. "So, you know how I was having Jarvis scan the data dump for files on the Winter Soldier?- Bucky's head snapped up-"And I couldn't find anything? Well, turns out they were not only under a different name, but they were in an encrypted file that had still been locked even with the data dump. But, here's the bad news. I wasn't the one who found it first. Someone managed to break the encryption, and now there's a whole file on Barnes on the web. And I mean everything. His identity, details about his time with Hydra, the whole shebang. Everyone knows, and shit's hitting the fan."

Bucky felt sick. Everyone knew? How much had been in the files?

"What are they saying?" Steve asked.

Stark sighed. "It's a mixed bag. Most people are appalled at what Hydra did to Barnes. I gotta warn you, there's some graphic stuff in the files." He glanced at Bucky. "But then there are a few people calling for his head. I wouldn't be surprised if the government puts out an arrest warrant. For all they know, he's still under Hydra's control."

Bucky felt small as they talked about him, the thought of strangers discussing and analyzing what he'd been though on the internet distressing. 

"But they don't know he's here, right?" Steve said.

"No, they have no idea. Everyone thinks he's in the wind or still with Hydra. No one knows what really happened in DC."

Steve nodded. "Then he's safe for now." He turned to Bucky, eyes softening. "You're safe here. I won't let anyone take you. I promise."

Bucky nodded, still reeling from the information that Stark had dumped on him. He felt detached from his body, like this was happening far away. He didn't know exactly what was on the files, but even thinking about it made him nauseated. Hydra's horrors should stay in his head where they belonged. He didn't want them out in the open for everyone to see.

"What can we do?" Sam interjected. "Is there a way to take the files down?"

Stark shook his head. "Like I said, they're everywhere now. We'd never be able to erase them all. I can have lawyers start working Barnes' case though. We want to do this legally in case they bring charges against him. Harboring a fugitive terrorist wouldn't go over well with the US government."

"Bucky's not a terrorist," Steve said heatedly.

Stark raised his hands. "I know, Steve. I know. But that's how they'll see him. I'm just trying to prepare for the worst case scenario."

Steve deflated, anger abating. "I'm Sorry. Thank you, Tony. You've done so much for us. I owe you."

Stark waved a hand. "Please. If anything I owe you." He looked at Bucky. "I'm going to make sure no one comes after you for this. I want to bring in lawyers to start your case, but they would have to look at all the files and everything that happened while you were with Hydra. You okay with that?"

Bucky hesitated before nodding, grateful that Stark had asked him. While he didn't want anyone prying into that time, everyone would anyway. This way, it made him feel a little more in control of the situation.

Stark looked relieved. "Okay, great, I'll find the most trustworthy ones, people who can handle a case this complicated." He tapped something on his tablet. "Right. I think that's it for now. Also, Barnes, if you want to come down to the lab anytime, it would be extremely helpful to get your input on a new arm. And I'd love to get a look inside. I scanned it while you were out but nothing compares to the real thing." He pointed at him. "Think about it." He began to back towards the elevator. "I'll be back." With that he was gone, whisking away as fast as he had come. There was a weighty silence after he left, each person stunned. Sam finally spoke.

"So, this sucks. Barnes, how you feeling? That must've been a lot to take in."

Bucky nodded dazedly. "I don't know." It was like he was feeling everything and nothing at the same time. His gut clenched with anxiety but his mind felt distant and blank.

Sam studied him before nodding. "Okay. That's understandable. It'll probably hit you later though, so I'm gonna keep checking in with you to see how you're feeling, alright?"

Bucky nodded again. Steve's phone suddenly rang. He fished it out of his pocket, squinting at the screen.

"It's Imani," he said. "Buck, you want to talk to her?"

Bucky nodded, reaching out a hand for the phone. Steve handed it over, Bucky pressing the green button and Imani's face coming up on the screen.

"Hey, Bucky, just calling to check in. Have you heard the news at all?"

Bucky nodded. "Stark just told us."

"Oh. So you know about the files?"

He nodded again.

"I'm sorry. That's gotta be hard. Do you want us to come over tonight?"

Another nod.

"Okay, we'll be there around six. You haven't looked at them, have you?"

He shook his head.

"That's probably a good thing. You just focus on getting better, okay?"

He nodded. "Okay."

"I have to get back to work, but I'll see you tonight. Take care of yourself." Imani looked worried.

"Okay." He ended the call before handing the phone back to Steve. "I want to see the news."

"Buck..are you sure you want to do that?"

He stared at Steve resolutely. "I want to see the news."

He could see Steve's resistance crumbling, giving in. "Okay, but we're watching it with you."

"Fine." He led the way over to the couch, curling up on his end as Steve and Sam took their positions. Steve picked up the remote, aiming it at the tv before hesitating, looking at Bucky. Bucky raised an eyebrow defiantly. He  _needed_ to know. Hydra had kept him in the dark, and the need to make sure he knew everything now pricked at him insistently. He would never be kept in the dark again.

Steve turned on the tv, a news channel labeled CNN appearing on the screen. A banner along the bottom read:

THE WINTER SOLDIER UNMASKED: JAMES BARNES, VILLAIN OR VICTIM?

The screen was split into two halves, a female reporter sitting behind a desk on the left and a man against an unidentifiable background on the right. A photo of Bucky in his army uniform nestled in the left corner, face neutral and hat cocked at a jaunty angle.

The female reporter was speaking. "We've learned today the the infamous Winter Soldier is none other than James Buchanan Barnes, war hero and best friend to Captain America, aka Steve Rogers." A picture of them during the war flashed up, Bucky's arm slung around Steve's shoulders as they smiled. "The big question everyone wants to know is, how did this happen? Well, let's turn it over to Scott Jones, who's been analyzing the Winter Soldier files since they were released early this morning. Scott, can you tell us what's going on?"

A man on the right side of the screen nodded, face grim. "Well, Linda, there's a lot to talk about. First, let's answer the question of how this happened. How is Bucky Barnes alive today, and why is he a Hydra assassin? We all assumed that Sergeant Barnes was killed in action, but he technically was only missing in action. They never found his body. According to the Winter Soldier files, Hydra found Sergeant Barnes injured but alive due to prior experimentation he had undergone during his capture at Azzano. Due to the injury, they had to make him a new arm, hence the metal arm that we see in the videos and mentions of the Winter Soldier. What happens next is where the story really gets horrifying. When Hydra couldn't make Barnes work for them through, let's say, coercive means, they resorted to mind control. There was a device they used to literally wipe his memories, allowing them to brainwash him into their perfect soldier. The reason he hasn't aged is because they kept him in cryostasis between missions, and I'm estimating from the files that he's only been awake for about two years in total. So that's the long and short of it, for anyone who doesn't have the stomach to read the files."

"Thanks, Scott. That certainly is an almost unbelievable tale. The Winter Soldier alone was viewed as a ghost story by most major intelligence bureaus until what happened in DC. To find out that this figure of legend is none other than beloved figure Bucky Barnes is shocking to say the least. But Scott, let's answer the most important question. Is James Barnes a villain or victim?"

"Well Linda, that one is pretty easy. James Barnes is unquestionably a victim, although who the Winter Soldier is now is up for debate. But the James Barnes that was originally captured by Hydra was in every way a prisoner of war, and never became the Winter Soldier willingly. Some of the stuff in the files is so horrific that I couldn't even look at it. There's reports, pictures, whole hours of video of Hydra torturing him. But they keep saying, over and over, that he won't give in. He kept fighting them, even after they took his memories. So no, James Barnes is not a villain. James Barnes is a war hero and the longest held prisoner of war in history. The Winter Soldier, however, that's another question. We don't know if he's the same person, and if he's still out there under Hydra's control. He could be beyond any redemption now, and should be taken in before he hurts anyone else. But whatever his mental state, the ones who should be blamed for his actions are Hydra, and we should never drag Barnes' name through the mud. The Bucky Barnes that gave his life for his country would be appalled at the crimes the Winter Soldier has committed, and we should never equate the two. To do that would be to dishonor the memory of one of our most beloved heroes. And that's my answer for you, Linda."

"Wow, what a powerful message. That was Scott Jones, Scott thank you so much for your words. Now, let's continue talking about the Winter Soldier. Scott, you said that while James Barnes is innocent, the Winter Soldier is another question. Scott, can you talk a little more about who the Winter Soldier is?"

"Certainly. The Winter Soldier is an extremely skilled, enhanced individual with no moral code and no off switch. He's been put through some of the most brutal training methods known to man, and is essentially a killing machine. He's like a loaded gun-Hydra just aims at their target and pulls the trigger. We've seen some of the footage from DC, but now we have a clip here to give you an idea of just how dangerous the Winter Soldier is. This was taken from the Hydra files of his training sessions-warning, this video may not be appropriate for some viewers."

The reporters disappeared, replaced by a video feed. Bucky recognized the cold cement walls of the Siberia base, his own form as the soldier standing surrounded by agents. There was a barked word, and he moved in a flurry of action, face blank and eyes narrowed in rage. He cut through the agents like butter, twisting and hitting in smooth motions as the agents fell around him. In less than a minute twelve agents were on the ground, groaning in various states of pain but alive. Bucky vividly remembered that he was not supposed to kill them. The soldier stood utterly still in the middle of the room, breaths barely elevated. His face was visible beneath a curtain of hair, cold and dangerous. There was a complete silence before the video stopped, the reporters' faces reemerging on the screen.

Scott's face was serious. "There's many more graphic videos of the Winter Soldier in the files, but we can't show them here. Just remember that this is only scratching the surface of everything he's capable of. The Winter Soldier is extremely dangerous, and should be treated accordingly. I have here a list of assassinations over the years from the recently released Winter Soldier files, and it is quite extensive. The list totals thirty assassinations over a span of fifty years, with some pretty high profile people on it. Some of the most shocking names include John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Howard and Maria Stark."

"Wow, it looks like we're going to have to rethink some of our history. We haven't heard anything from Tony Stark or Steve Rogers yet, which brings up some questions. Now, we've heard nothing from Steve Rogers since DC, and he recently moved into Stark Tower in New York. What everyone is wondering is, did he know? We only saw the Winter Soldier masked in DC, but is it possible that Captain Rogers knew the Winter Soldier's identity before now? And how is this going to affect his relationship with Tony Stark?"

"That's a good question. Now, I think Captain Rogers must have known after DC. It would explain his radio silence, and the fact that he moved into Stark Tower. I'm thinking he was using Stark's resources to try and find the Winter Soldier, aka his childhood best friend. However, now that we know the Winter Soldier was responsible for the death of Stark's parents, that's got to cause some conflict between them. Of course, this is all purely speculation right now, as we haven't heard anything from either Avenger yet. My condolences to both for their losses. We'll be keeping you updated as we go with any new information."

"Thanks, Scott. Let's move to the question of where the Winter Soldier is now. He seems to have vanished after DC, and there's been a lot of speculation as to where he is now. Some say that he's still with the remaining members of Hydra underground, while others say he's in the wind. What do you think, Scott?"

"That's hard to answer. Given as we haven't seen him, I'm thinking that he isn't with Hydra. We've seen Shield take down some of the remaining Hydra cells in the two weeks since DC, but there's been no trace of the Winter Soldier. Surely if Hydra had him they would be using him to tip the scales in their favor. As far as him being in the wind, I don't know what to think. From what I've read, the Winter Soldier was completely dependent on Hydra. While he has the espionage skills to disappear, I don't think he would be able to survive for long on his own. He's either getting help, through coercion or a unwitting good Samaritan, or he's slowly dying somewhere without Hydra. However, just because he's helpless when it comes to taking care of himself doesn't mean he's any less dangerous. It's like releasing a tiger into a major city. It'll probably starve on it's own, but that doesn't mean you should pet it. He's enhanced, has a metal arm, and is probably the most skilled assassin in the world. He's simply too dangerous to have walking around. We don't even know his mental state. He may still be under Hydra's control, he may not. Whatever the case, he's still a danger to society, and should be brought in before he can cause any further damage. Back to you, Linda."

"Great insight from Scott Jones, our senior correspondent here at CNN. For those of you just tuning in we're discussing the so-called "Winter Soldier files" released early this morning, which revealed that the infamous assassin from DC was none other than Captain America's best friend and war hero, Bucky Barnes, brainwashed by Hydra for decades. Stay tuned for updates throughout the day as we delve into this file and everything it entails. Here at CNN, I'm Linda Martin. We'll be back in a moment."

Music played, the screen fading and a commercial starting to play. Sam and Steve turned to Bucky looking cautious. He didn't know why they were so worried about his reaction. He agreed with everything they had said on the news. The old Bucky Barnes wasn't to blame, but he was. He was dangerous, and should be brought in for others' protection. Hydra had made him dependent on them, and he had needed help. Surprisingly, they had gotten almost everything right. He felt numb, detached from any emotion about the situation. There was nothing he could do now. Whatever happened, happened.

Steve lifted the remote, glancing at him warily. "You want to-"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Sam interjected. "You don't have to-"

"Yes." He wanted to know every detail of what was happening. The thought of them talking about him and not knowing what they said made his skin crawl. Steve and Sam gave each other worried looks, but fell silent. The commercials ended and the news came back on with a whoosh of sound, a new banner along the bottom reading:

BREAKING NEWS: ARREST WARRANT OUT FOR JAMES BARNES, THE WINTER SOLDIER 

Bucky stiffened, shooting a glance at Steve who looked appalled. 

"And we're back today this is CNN Breaking News Live, I'm Linda Martin and this is senior correspondent Scott Jones, we've just received information that an arrest warrant has been issued for the Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes. Here's the statement from the FBI regarding the case."

The screen switched to a video of a man in an FBI windbreaker at a podium, speaking in front of a crowd of reporters.

"The FBI is currently asking anyone with any information on the whereabouts of James Barnes, alias the Winter Soldier, to come forward. Sightings can be reported at 1-800-225-5324. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous; under no circumstances should anyone attempt to engage or subdue him. We are attempting to bring him in for psychological evaluation and containment in light of recent information. Photos for identification are being released, and we encourage everyone to be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. James Barnes is approximately 5'9," 260 lbs, with shoulder-length brown hair and a metal left arm. Again, he is considered armed and extremely dangerous, do not approach or engage under any circumstances. Thank you."

The reporters came back, a full-length still of the Winter Soldier on the screen. Linda was talking.

"This is an image of the Winter Soldier from a still in the Hydra files. As you can see, the metal arm is distinctive, with the red Russian star on the shoulder. We can assume that he will be trying to hide this, so it's important to recognize his face as well. This isn't exactly the Bucky Barnes we all saw in the history books. But this is an interesting development. It looks like with the reveal of the Winter Soldier's identity and confirmation of his crimes the government is finally pursuing an arrest. But are they equipped to handle him? As we know, he's not only enhanced and has a bionic arm but he's expertly trained. Is this a job for the Avengers?"

"That's what I'm wondering, Linda. Unless the entire military is there to subdue him I don't see them having an easy time of it. Besides, I'm betting that Steve Rogers wants to be the one to bring him in. In fact, I'm wondering why we haven't heard anything from him still?"

"A great point, Scott. Why haven't we heard from Steve Rogers? Perhaps-"

The elevator doors opened and Tony came sweeping into the room, face grim. "You guys are watching the news?" They all nodded. "I hate to say it, but we have to tell them Barnes is here. I called up my lawyers, and if I say that you're in my custody and Steve's you should be able to stay here. Otherwise, this is going to turn into a witch hunt." Tony grimaced, looking at Bucky. "I'm sorry, Barnes. It's still up to you, but I can't promise what will happen if we do nothing with an arrest warrant out."

Steve turned down the volume on the tv and Steve and Sam both looked at him, waiting for his response. He took a deep breath, weighing his options. If they told the world he was here, the government might come to take him away. On the other hand if they didn't, eventually the government would find out and definitely take him away. Finally he nodded. "Okay. Tell them I'm here."

Tony let out a relieved sigh. "Okay, good. Don't worry, I won't let them take you. My lawyers are like sharks. I'm going to call a press conference, make sure everything goes smoothly. Steve, you should probably be there as well."

Steve hesitated, looking at Bucky.

Bucky nodded. "No one can say no to you, Rogers," he mumbled.

Steve quirked a small smile. "Alright. When are we doing this?"

Tony checked his watch. "Ideally, as soon as possible. But we need to prepare what we're going to say. Just give me a minute to call the press conference and then we can sit down and hash it out." He darted out of the room, leaving the soft murmur of the tv in his wake.

A few minutes later he was back, armed with tablets, notebooks, and pens as he gestured with his head to the table. They got up, clustering around the table as he laid out his armful of materials.

"Okay, I called the press conference for this afternoon. Let's start outlining what we're going to say. We want to say that Barnes is in our custody and we will be overseeing his recovery, but how many details we share is up to you." He looked at Bucky. "You're in control."

Bucky let out a breath. "Okay."

"Great. Let's get started."

***

BREAKING NEWS: TONY STARK ANNOUNCES PRESS CONFERENCE WITH STEVE ROGERS

"I'm Pamela Nichols and I'm here with Michael Cook. Today we're discussing the latest bombshell to rock the internet: The Winter Soldier Files. Information is still coming in, but so far our biggest revelation has been the identity of the Winter Soldier as James Buchanan Barnes, Howling Commando and best friend to Steve Rogers, aka Captain America. The Winter Soldier is an infamous Hydra assassin who has been purported to have been involved in over thirty assassinations over the last fifty years. The most shocking of these included John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Howard and Maria Stark." Pictures of each one flashed on the screen behind them, lingering in slow motion. "Just this morning Tony Stark, son of Howard and Maria Stark and known Avenger Iron Man, announced that he would be holding a press conference today with fellow Avenger Steve Rogers, which will be taking place in a few moments. How will they address the fact that the killer of Tony Stark's parents is none other than Steve Roger's childhood friend? Stay tuned as we move to the press conference live. I'm Pamela Nichols, and you're watching CNN."

Bucky and Sam watched as the video of the press conference started, Tony and Steve standing in front of Avengers tower behind a podium with microphones arrayed on top. A crowd stood in front, multiple cameras aimed in the direction of the podium. Tony took a deep breath.

"I'm sure you all think you know why I've called you here today. You all would be wrong. I am not here to discuss the deaths of my parents, or how Hydra had them killed. The fact is, I already knew this a week ago. I'm here to announce that James Barnes is currently in the custody of myself and Captain Rogers, and will be staying in the tower as he recovers and legal matters are settled. I have lawyers already working on his case. We want to cooperate with the government without turning him over to them, as we believe that this is the best place for him. We have the resources to help Barnes, and he should not be locked up in some prison for crimes he did not willingly commit. I want to make it clear that I in no way blame Barnes for the deaths of my parents, and I only wish to help him. He is just as much a victim of Hydra as my parents were, and he deserves justice and support, not hatred and fear. Although we certainly could hold him if needed, Barnes is willingly staying in the tower and cooperating with our efforts to help him. I have talked to him at length, and he agreed to this press conference and had input on our statements. I'll turn it over to Captain Rogers to tell the story."

Steve swallowed visibly, shifting closer to the microphones. "I've known that Bucky was the Winter Soldier since DC, when his mask came off. However, he had no idea who I was or even what his own name was. I next saw him when we fought on the helicarrier, but I managed to get through to him and he ended up saving my life, pulling me out of the river before disappearing. I've been looking for him ever since, and obtained a brief file about the Winter Soldier's beginnings in Russia. It was this file that informed me of his role in the deaths of Stark's parents, and I passed this information on to him. He recognized immediately that Bucky was not responsible for his actions, and he offered me a place in the tower while I looked for Bucky, as well as full use of all his resources. I accepted, and we began digging into the information we had about the Winter Soldier and trying to find Bucky. We eventually traced him to Brooklyn, but lost him after that. From his account, he was  living in an apartment there since a few days after DC, trying to piece his memories together. He became friendly with some of his neighbors, who learned of his identity early on and sought to help him. Three days ago, one of these neighbors came to the tower and informed us that Bucky was in critical condition, suffering from withdrawal from the drugs Hydra had kept him on. They led us to where he was living and we brought him here, where he has been recovering since. He has regained many of his memories, and is fully aware of who he is and what was done to him." Steve looked emotional yet defiant. "He is the strongest and bravest person I've ever met, and I won't let anyone harm him ever again." He glared with fiery determination at the crowd as if daring them to contradict him. Bucky felt a rush of exasperation at Steve's pigheadedness.

"I think that's about it. Questions?" Tony asked.

Every hand went up. Tony pointed to one at random.

"Mr. Stark, how are you able to keep Barnes contained? Shouldn't he be in a government facility?"

"You mean a government facility that is not equipped to hold super soldiers? My tower has state of the art security and there's not only myself but Captain America living there. I could think of nowhere safer for Barnes. Next." Tony pointed to someone else.

"What about his mental state? Is he still a threat?"

"No. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. Except Hydra, of course. He said, quote, 'fucking Hydra,' so I think his feelings on that are pretty clear." There was murmuring from the crowd, a few chuckles. Another hand went up.

"You said you've been able to talk to him. Is he aware of his role in your parents' deaths?"

"Yes."

"And how does he feel about that? Does he regret his actions with Hydra?"

"Undoubtedly. He seems very affected by the knowledge of what Hydra made him do." 

More hands flew up. "Captain Rogers, you said that Barnes has regained some of his memories. Does this mean he remembers your past together?"

"Yes. He didn't at first, but it's all coming back slowly." 

"Has he read the files?"

Steve stiffened. "No. He lived it, and I'm sure he would appreciate it if everyone didn't analyze everything he's been through," he said snippily.

"Alright, that's it for now," Stark interjected. "Thank you for your time." With a last nod and wave to the crowd, he and Steve turned and disappeared into the tower as the tv switched back to the reporters, who were now discussing the press conference. Sam turned down the sound, Steve and Tony coming through the elevator doors minutes later.

"So, that wasn't horrible," Stark commented. "I expect we're going to have the authorities breathing down our necks any second though." His phone buzzed in his pocket. "Speak of the devil." He pulled it out. "Tony Stark. Yes. No. Uh-huh. Actually..." he turned away, moving to the kitchen to continue his conversation while Steve sat down on the couch across from Bucky, face worried.

"You okay?"

Bucky nodded. Steve gave him a small smile.

"I won't let anything happen to you."

_It's not me I'm worried about,_ Bucky thought.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicide and self-harm; I know there's already been a lot of awful stuff but these two can really trigger people and I want everyone to stay safe. Feel free to comment if you feel I need specific trigger warnings on other chapters; I tried to have the tags reflect the themes and it's a given with this kind of story that there's going to be a lot of horrible stuff (torture, PTSD, etc.). I do want to show these realistically because they are very damaging and PTSD is a real thing that many people suffer from. Fortunately, treatments are emerging, and I'm going to try and show how people can recover from even the most horrific events with professional help. This will have a happy ending!

_Cold cement walls surrounded him, disabled agents strewn on the floor around him. Suddenly one got up again, moving to take the soldier off guard from behind. Something snapped in the soldier and he whirled around, lashing out with his metal arm and throwing the agent across the room where he hit the wall with a sickening crack and fell to the ground, unmoving. More agents rushed forward. Someone barked an order, 'stand down, Soldier,' but the soldier was moving, face contorted with rage as he shredded the agents that tried to subdue him, ripping them apart like tissue paper. A shot was fired into his left thigh but he didn't react, continuing to fight. Another bullet hit him in the flesh arm and he snarled. It hung limply against his side as he continued to tear through the agents with his metal arm. Another shot rang through the room and he stumbled, blood spreading from his right kneecap. People were shouting, agents screaming, the room in chaos as rage turned his vision red. The soldier staggered, both legs injured and buckling underneath him. He went down hard, agents pinning him to the floor. He reached up with his metal hand, latching onto the throat of one of the agents until a needle was stabbed into his thigh, his struggles finally ceasing and body going limp as the world faded..._

Bucky woke up thrashing in his bed, trying to escape invisible hands. He took deep lungfuls of air, trying to slow his racing heart. Sweat soaked through his t-shirt and tremors rocked his body as he sat up in bed, scraping his flesh hand through damp strands of hair that stuck to his neck with sweat. The clock read 6:00 am. Bucky groaned softly, hauling himself out of bed. Quietly, he made his way to the bathroom, stripping off his sweat-stained clothes and stepping into the shower. Hot water relaxed tensed muscles, cleansing suds erasing all evidence of his nightmare. His shoulder ached and he pressed flesh fingers to it,  _fingers scrabbling frantically at the seam of this thing they had attached to him, clawing desperately get it out blood running down his chest oh god, get it out get it out get it out_ -he flinched back, his back hitting the wall of the shower as he gasped. The memory came back in fragments and he looked down, seeing the finger-shaped scars that extended from the seam of the metal arm where he had tried to claw it out of him. He shuddered, shutting off the shower and getting out.

It was going to be a long day. After the press conference the day before, the FBI had immediately contacted Stark. They had agreed to let Bucky stay in his custody under the condition that Bucky underwent a psychological evaluation. They wanted to assess what his mental state was and if he was a danger, so they could determine what actions needed to be taken. An FBI psychologist was coming in today at noon to conduct the evaluation, which would take place in a secure room in the tower. The FBI had insisted that precautions be taken, meaning that Bucky was to be restrained during the interview. Steve had protested loudly, but they wouldn't budge. Bucky privately thought it was smart.

When he was dressed, in jeans and a red henley more suitable for an interview, he wandered into the kitchen, taking a moment to feed Koshka. He bent down and stroked her glossy fur, the cat beginning to fill out and look healthier with the steady meals. Steve was gone, presumably running with Sam. Bucky made eggs, toast, and coffee and sat in front of the tv while he ate, flipping through the news channels. They were still talking about the bombshell that was the press conference yesterday and analyzing every word that Tony and Steve had said. There was apparently a special on him and Steve airing later, about their early lives and the war. Reporters speculated on his current mental state and when they would hear from him if ever. More kept digging into the Winter Soldier files and questioned whether he would be brought to trial, which made anxiety flutter in his stomach. It seemed everyone had an opinion on him and everyone had read the files. The files. They contained almost everything Hydra had done to him, every horror documented with exquisite detail for the world to see. Pictures of his broken body when they had found him. Videos of torture and brainwashing. Pages and pages of notes on his condition, training, mission reports, everything. His life laid bare in all its horrible truth. There was an outpouring of horror and pity for what he had gone through, people decrying Hydra and hailing him as a broken prisoner of war. It should have been comforting that so many people didn't blame him or hate him, but it wasn't. He wished they would stop, wished they would just forget about him and move on with their lives, wouldn't talk about what he'd gone through like it was the next sensationalized tragedy. He didn't want people to watch and read about what Hydra had done to him, to forever look at him and only see that. He didn't want their pity, or their forgiveness.

Steve returned a little while later, barely sweating from what was probably a strenuous workout, if Sam were to be believed. He showered and then made himself breakfast, coming to sit next to Bucky on the couch. Bucky turned off the tv, not wanting Steve to worry about him. It was bad enough from the general public. Steve sat far enough away on the couch not to make Bucky anxious, setting down his plate on the coffee table. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked, tone purposefully nonchalant as he looked at Bucky.

"Fine," Bucky replied.

"You know, you don't have to do this," Steve said. 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Yes I do." If he didn't do the psych eval, the government would probably take him away. They were already lucky they had agreed to let him stay in the tower.

"We could figure something out. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I don't trust them to stick to their word."

It made sense that Steve would be wary of government agencies, especially after the fiasco with Shield in DC. To be honest, Bucky didn't trust them either, but it wasn't like he had much choice. He was pretty sure they would eventually find a way to lock him up in some government facility for the rest of his life, but he wasn't going to tell Steve that. Better to make him think there was hope. He would try to burn the government to the ground if he thought they intended to take Bucky. This way, it would be gradual. Bucky would comply, and eventually Steve would get over it. He would realize that Bucky was not the brave, good person he thought he was, and that it was better this way. Safer.

"Let it go, Steve," he said. "It's fine."

Steve nodded, but he didn't look reassured. He finished his breakfast in silence, gaze far-off and contemplative. Bucky took his pain meds at eight, dulling the persistent throb as he tried not to think about the memory that had surfaced. Sam came over and he and Steve talked in the kitchen while Bucky started the book that Imani and Maria had given to him yesterday at dinner. It was the Hobbit, which he had apparently read when it first came out. He didn't remember reading it, but was intrigued to encounter something he had known in his old life. Maybe reading it would trigger memories, or give him insight into the kind of person he used to be. He became engrossed, hours flying by until Stark entered, face unreadable.

"It's time," he said. Bucky felt dread and a kind of helpless resignation grip him and he swallowed nervously, putting down the book.

"You ready?" Steve asked.

He nodded, unable to speak. Together Stark, Sam, Steve, and Bucky made their way to the repurposed interrogation room, where a metal table stood welded to the floor with a chair on either side. One chair was reinforced, with heavy cuffs open on the table. Bucky stopped in the doorway, trying to quell the surge of fear.

"You good?" Sam questioned calmly.

He nodded, taking a deep breath and stepping into the room. Stark had tried to make it as un-Hydra-like as possible, the chair comfortable and straight backed and the cuffs simple bands of metal attached to the table. The cuffs were designed by Stark, with a strong magnetic core in them that made them impossible to break. The FBI had been uncompromising on Bucky being restrained securely. They weren't taking any chances. The cuffs could only be released by a button on the underside of the table across from Bucky, the table similarly reinforced and held to the floor securely. Bucky slowly crossed the room to the chair, sitting hesitantly as if it might spring to life and bind him like the chair in Hydra. Nothing happened and he relaxed minutely, setting his forearms on the table and breathing evenly.

"Hey, take as long as you need," Sam said. "We'll only lock those when you give the go-ahead. You're in total control."

Sam's words surprisingly calmed him. It was somehow reassuring to hear that he was in control, that nothing would happen unless he said so. He exhaled, placing his forearms in the open cuffs and nodding. Tony moved forward, gently closing the cuffs with a click. A small band around them lit up blue, the magnets working. They fit snugly around his wrists, but not so tight as to cut off circulation to his right arm. It seemed Stark had gone one step further in making him comfortable by lining the inside with soft material so it wouldn't chafe against his flesh arm. The lack of cold metal against his skin made his anxiety lessen and he felt more comfortable. He could get through this. Stark left the room to greet the FBI agents and psychologist, Sam and Steve staying with him.

"Buck, you okay?" Steve questioned. 

He nodded. Surprisingly, he was okay.

A knock sounded on the door and it pushed open, a middle-aged man with glasses appearing. He had short brown hair and a narrow face, deep crinkles surrounding sharp hazel eyes. He smiled warmly, extending a hand to Steve and Sam.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Broussard. You must be Captain Rogers and Senior Airman Sam Wilson. It's a pleasure to meet you." He shook their hands, looking over to Bucky. "And you must be Sergeant Barnes. Apologies for your present state, the bureau was insistent." He gave a fleeting smile.

Bucky nodded, watching him suspiciously. The man smiled again, turning back to Steve and Sam.

"I think we're all good here. You're free to go; I'm sure the agents will be wanting to talk to you. This session is confidential, you understand. While I make a final judgement on his mental state, everything he says stays in this room."

Steve hesitated, looking at Bucky. "Is that okay with you?"

Bucky nodded. It wasn't like they had a choice. And he'd rather Steve not hear anything he said. 

"Okay. I won't be far. If you need me for anything..."

He nodded again. With a final glance back, Steve left the room, Sam in tow. The psychologist took the seat opposite Bucky, studying him with keen eyes.

"Hello, Sergeant Barnes," he said evenly. "It's an honor to finally meet you."

"My name is Bucky." Bucky shifted under his gaze.

A corner of his lip tugged up. "Tell me Bucky, you've seen a great deal, haven't you."

"I don't want to talk about it," he replied lowly.

"You feel that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop," Dr. Broussard remarked. He leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "Don't worry, we only have to talk about one."

Something felt off. A gut feeling niggled at Bucky, something sinister and familiar in the psychologist's eyes and a satisfied smirk pulling at his lips.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, tension thrumming through his body. Maybe he was being paranoid, but something wasn't right...

"Why don't we discuss you home? Not this tower. Certainly not Brooklyn, no. I mean, your real home." He removed his glasses, setting them on the table. "желание."  _Longing._

Bucky shook his head slightly, head falling back against the chair, a whispered "no," slipping from his lips.

"ржaвый."  _Rusted._

His jaw trembled, eyes closing. "Stop."

"Семнадцать."  _Seventeen._

His fists clenched, arms straining against the cuffs and teeth bared in a snarl. "Stop."

"Рассвет."  _Daybreak._

A scream tore from his throat as his mind exploded with pain.

"Печь."  _Furnace._

He strained against the cuffs helplessly, mind splitting apart. He could feel himself slipping, blind rage overtaking him.

"Девять." _Nine._

His fingernails dug into the palm of his flesh hand, blood dripping to the table.

 _"_ добросердечный."  _Benign._

 _Please,_ he thought.  _Please, no._

"возвращение на родину."  _Homecoming._

His thoughts started to become hazy, a singular coldness taking over.

"Один."  _One._

He struggled desperately, a black hole opening in his mind. His mind latched onto one final thought.  _Steve._

 _"_ грузовой вагон."  _Freight car._

He felt himself still, and the world fell away.

"солдат?"  _Soldier?_

"Готов к выполнению." _Ready to comply._

***

-He snapped back to reality for a second just as his right fist connected with Steve's face. He grabbed his right wrist with his metal hand and wrenched until he heard a snap. The pain ricocheted through him and he screamed before the world dissolved once more-

-The metal arm lashed out towards Sam. He stopped it at the last second, staggering back. Something hit his leg in a blast of fiery pain and he screamed, mind snapping back-

-ucky!" someone shouted, and the world was blurring in front of him as he stumbled, leg almost giving out before he was sucked back under-

-He was pointing a gun at Steve, metal finger poised on the trigger. He gasped, turning the gun towards him and bringing it to his temple before conditioning sent a shock of agony through his body and he dropped the gun, screaming in helpless rage as the blankness clawed its way forward-

-There was a sharp stab of pain in his head and he swayed, hand coming up to his temple. It came away wet with blood, and he stared at it in sick fascination. His mind felt muddled, like he was underwater. He looked up, gaze landing on Steve, Sam, and Stark in his Iron Man suit standing in front of him, stances defensive. Bruises and blood marred Steve and Sam's faces, and Stark's gauntlet was pointed straight at him. 

"Steve?" he said shakily.

Steve exhaled but didn't move. "Buck? Are you with us?"

He looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar room, destruction all around him. Bodies littered the floor, men groaning in various states of distress and others standing back, watching him warily. Several held the psychologist by arms that were cuffed behind his back, a frustrated expression on his face. Bucky's breathing picked up, tears pricking at his eyes as a deep ache settled in his chest.

"What did I do?"

"It wasn't you," Steve said.

Bucky shook his head. "No. No. No, no." He began to hyperventilate, stumbling back until he hit the wall. His breaths came in sobs, broken right wrist cradled to his chest. Horror crashed over him in waves. "No, n-no."

Steve started to move forward and Bucky flinched, a sound of distress escaping. He had hurt Steve. _He had hurt Steve_. "No," he choked out. "No." He couldn't breathe, chest hitching with sobs and throat closing up.

"Hey, breathe, man," came Sam's steady voice. "Just breathe. It's okay."

He shook his head. It  _wasn't_ okay. It  _wasn't._ He gripped his right arm below the elbow with the metal hand, squeezing tighter and tighter until it  _crunched_ with a satisfying burst of pain as he sobbed and heaved for breath. 

"Bucky, stop!" Steve yelled, moving forward.

"Oh, for God's sake," the psychologist snarled from the back of the room. "Sputnik."

His mind went terrifyingly, completely blank. His knees hit the ground with a crack he didn't feel, the world a distant blur. Arms came behind his back and his right hand gripped the metal wrist ineffectively, broken and mangled. Something burned in his left leg. He bowed his head, chin almost touching his chest and hair forming a curtain around him. Distantly he was aware that something was wrong, but it was swallowed up by a heavy fog as his breathing regulated and a detached coldness came over him. A shudder ran through his body as some part of him fought to break free, but his conditioning won over. He drifted in and out of reality, indistinct voices occasionally breaking through the fog and blurry movement in his peripheral vision. He vaguely felt something touch his flesh shoulder, like an afterthought in a dream. One voice was closer, clearer, a few words registering.

"B-y? Cn...hear..? Do...here...you...can...?...need..help...hurt..." An unintelligible string of words flowed from the voice, Bucky floating in a numb haze. After an indeterminable amount of time, his flesh arm was taken from behind his back and brought forward; Bucky unresisting, a puppet on strings. When it was released it fell limply, knuckles hitting the floor and the ghost of pain skittering up his arm. Someone quickly picked it up again, cradling it gently as they wrapped something around it. More voices swirled around him. Hands lightly touched his back. Then a needle pricked his neck, and the world went dark.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, specific trigger warning for suicide attempt. Stay safe, my peeps. You matter. If you are ever having suicidal thoughts, you can call 1-800-273-8255 (National Suicide Prevention Lifeline) or text 741741 (Crisis Text Line).

He awoke slowly, brain fuzzy and body a leaden weight on the soft surface beneath him. He remembered the events of the day before with a dull detachment, as if watching himself in a movie. His right arm pulsed with a dull ache from the elbow down, splinted and wrapped, and the seam of the metal shoulder throbbed. He felt a needle taped to his right hand, the dull pain probably a result of pain meds. He cracked open his eyes, staring blearily up at now-familiar white ceiling. The med bay. A rustling came from his right, a figure in his peripheral vision.

"Buck?" came the soft voice. Steve. Bucky kept staring at the ceiling, unwilling to look at him.

"Is he still..?" Steve's voice hissed.

"I don't know," came Sam's whispered reply. "I hope not." Louder he said, "Hey, Barnes, are you with us?"

_No,_ Bucky thought. "Yes," he said hoarsely.

Steve audibly exhaled. "God Buck, I thought...How are you feeling?"

That was a stupid question, Bucky thought. How was he feeling? Like Hydra had just taken over his mind again with a few simple words. Like he had hurt people when he had sworn he never would again. Like he had been locked in a room alone with a Hydra agent, restrained and helpless. He felt empty, angry, numb. He felt nothing and everything at once, and he wished he could just die so they could never make him their puppet again. He remembered turning the gun on himself, the frustration and anger when he couldn't pull the trigger. Hydra had taken that choice away from him too. Was there an end to what they had taken? Choice was an illusion, he knew that now. So was control. He'd thought he was so in control, becoming a  _person_ these past two weeks, making  _choices._ He had really been doing nothing more than existing, following the orders of Steve and Sam and Stark and Imani and Maria instead of Hydra. He had never really been in control. Imani and Maria had helped him without him asking. It had never been his choice to move to the tower. It was never his choice to be outed to the world. Never his choice that the FBI requested their fucking psychological evaluation. Stark had told him that he was in control. Steve had told him he could say no, that everything was his choice. But was it really? Would they have let him leave the tower? Would the FBI have really accepted no for an answer? Everything that had happened swirled around his mind, clarity striking.  _He had never been in control._

"Hey man, you still with us?" Sam asked. Bucky didn't reply. "Okay, maybe you just don't want to talk. Can you at least give me a sign that you can hear me?"

Bucky slowly raised the metal hand, middle finger extended, before dropping it back on the bed. _Fuck you._ If he couldn't have control or choice over anything, at least he still had defiance. Steve made a noise that sounded like something between a laugh and a sob.

"Alright, I get it, you don't want to talk," Sam said, unfazed. "Just know that you're safe and everyone else is safe. You didn't hurt anyone badly. So if you're stewing in guilt, don't. But it's gotta be pretty horrible to have that happen, and you're probably feeling pretty shitty. If you ever want to talk, we're here. Bruce is gonna come in to check on your injuries. Is that okay?"

He was obviously expecting a response. "Yes," Bucky ground out. He just wanted them to leave him alone. 

Sam  pressed a button by the bed and Bruce came through the doors a second later, no doubt waiting till Bucky was awake and aware to come in. He supposed they didn't want a repeat of the last time. He approached slowly, a small smile on his face. 

"Hello again. I'm just going to see how your injuries are doing, and then I can let you go. Can I have a look at your arm?"

Bucky moved it away from him on the bed, Steve and Sam backing up to give Bruce room. Bruce telegraphed his movements, gently lifting and unwrapping his arm. Underneath it was purple and swollen, a hand-shaped bruise visible on his forearm. Bucky regarded it with clinical detachment as Bruce turned it this way and that, careful not to bend his wrist. Finally he nodded, setting his arm down on the bed and grabbing wrap and a wrist brace.

"Usually with a break you would have a cast, but you heal so fast that I'm just going to give you a brace. I'm going to wrap the break on your upper radius and ulna, and then give you a brace to stabilize and immobilize that wrist break." He worked as he talked, wrapping Bucky's arm from mid-forearm all the way up above his elbow with practiced efficiency. Then he slid the wrist brace on and secured it snugly, careful of the IV. "Okay, just try not to move your elbow too much. The break is right below it, and is more of a crushing injury which is always harder to heal as there's a lot of soft tissue damage as well. Does that feel okay?"

Bucky nodded.

"Great. You also ah-strained the metal arm a bit earlier today. You're probably going to feel a lot of soreness in that shoulder. Just try to rest it, although I realize with your other arm out of commission you may have to use it a bit more. Just don't do anything strenuous. Also you have a pretty significant bruise on your left thigh from a repulsor blast, so that's going to hurt for a while. Finally, you had a slight concussion but it seems to be fine now. As you're already on pain medication and we gave you a sedative earlier I could only give you a little more IV drip, but you have permission to take an extra pill tonight. You have a fast metabolism, but these pills are specifically designed for that, and so work just like they would on a normal person. We want to keep you comfortable, but we don't want to overtax your system, as a high dose could be dangerous. That sound good to you?"

Bucky nodded. 

"Okay, then you're free to go. I'll let Steve and Sam help you to your floor and I'll be back tomorrow morning to check on your arm." He smiled kindly before leaving, Steve and Sam approaching the bed once more.

Bucky swung himself to the left, away from Steve and Sam, pushing himself off the bed and onto his feet. He swayed, muscles burning and left leg throbbing. It'd been two weeks since he had fought at all, and the he must have pushed himself to the limit fighting Steve, Sam, and Tony all at once. He walked to the elevator on unsteady legs, ignoring Steve and Sam hovering worriedly. They rode in silence until they reached Steve's floor, Sam immediately making a beeline for the kitchen. The clock above the stove read 5:00. It had only been five hours since the failed eval. Part of Bucky wondered what had happened with the FBI and if they were going to come and take him. Obviously he had failed the psychological evaluation. He wasn't stable and he wasn't safe. He had hurt FBI agents. Surely it was only a matter of time before they came for him. Another part wondered who the psychologist had been, and why he had triggered the soldier. What did he hope to accomplish? The larger part of Bucky couldn't muster up the energy to care about either question.

He sat down heavily on the couch in the living room, seeing his discarded book on the coffee table. Had it really only been this morning that he had been reading it, feeling safe and content? Steve sat down across from him on the couch, regarding him worriedly as Sam could distantly be heard talking on the phone. Koshka jumped up, settling on Bucky's lap. He couldn't pet her with his right hand and would never use the metal hand so he settled for resting his splinted wrist next to her. Sam reappeared a minute later, sinking down into the armchair.

"Okay, I ordered pizza. Figure you're gonna have a hard time using silverware right now. But you wanna tell us what happened? All we know is that we heard a scream and by the time we got to the room you were all Winter Soldier-y. That smug son of a bitch obviously did something to trigger you and released you from the cuffs, but we don't have any idea what it was. I know you don't wanna talk about it, but we gotta know so we can prevent it in the future and find out what the guy wanted with you." Sam met his eyes evenly, gaze searching and calm.

Bucky looked down before speaking, voice hoarse. "I knew this would happen. Everything Hydra put inside me is still there. All he had to do was say the goddamn words."

"Words?" Steve questioned.

"The Russians had a red book. 10 words and I become the Soldier," he said, tone flat.

Sam looked thoughtful. "So like, actual mind control? But there's no mention of it in the Hydra files."

Bucky shook his head. "Only the Russians had the book. The Americans didn't." 

"So he said the words, and you somehow snapped back to being the Soldier-like a dissociative episode?" Sam mused. "And then when we hit you in the head really hard, you came back to reality. Makes a certain amount of sense."

"But you kept-you seemed to come back to yourself a few times." Steve's eyes flicked to his wrist. "Do you remember that?"

He nodded. 

"Is that normal?" Sam asked. "Or were the words weaker because you have your memories?"

"Weaker," he said unemotionally. "They always did it after the chair."

Steve looked ill but Sam looked to be in deep thought. "So after they wiped your memories, was it like a way to make sure you retained everything from the Soldier?" He nodded. "Huh," Sam said.

"The psychologist, who was he?" Steve asked.

"I don't know," he said flatly. He didn't really care.

Steve looked at him, seemingly thinking out loud. "Apparently he's been a psychologist with the FBI for years, but you said only the Russians had the book. He must have been Russian then, right? A plant for Hydra?" He shared a glance with Sam.

Probably, Bucky thought. His Russian had been fluent and unaccented, and Hydra had agents everywhere. There was no escaping them, he knew that now.

"Makes sense," Sam said, nodding. "Although we still don't know what he wanted. The FBI are questioning him now. Considering the fact that you went straight for the FBI agents and the guy tried to act like he was innocent, I'm guessing he wanted to sabotage the psych eval. Maybe he hoped to have you transferred somewhere within easier reach of Hydra? If there's one plant in the FBI, there must be more."

Steve nodded. "After what happened with Shield, I'm not surprised."

Bucky remembered coming to surrounded by wounded agents and destruction and felt an ache in his chest. "What did I do?" he asked quietly.

"Well," Sam said, "you got past Steve and I and headed straight for the room full of FBI agents. You took most of them down-not fatally-before we caught up and Stark got his suit and we managed to contain you. Pretty much just kept fighting for a while until Stark hit you in the head pretty hard and-well, you know the rest. Although, I'm guessing what the psychologist said after that was another trigger word, just something different." He peered at Bucky. "Am I right about that?"

Bucky nodded.

"Okay, good to know. Mind-control man, that fucking sucks." He looked serious. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. I really am. Especially since we're the ones who left you in that room with him. I promise, we're gonna make sure nothing like this happens again. None of us knew about the trigger words before, but we do now. And you can bet that's the last time the FBI steps foot in here again."

Bucky frowned. "But I hurt them," he said softly. Weren't they going to come take him away?

Steve shook his head. "No, Buck, it wasn't you. And no one was seriously hurt."

"Yeah man, the only good thing about this was that first, it proved we could contain you if anything happened and second, that you literally tried to break your own arm rather than hurt anyone. Add to that the fact that it was the FBI's own psychologist that made you do it and they're content to step back and let Stark handle this. You got nothing to worry about from them."

Steve smiled. "You're safe here. I'm so sorry, Buck, and I won't let anyone hurt you again."

Bucky didn't know whether to feel relieved or not. He wasn't sure he deserved to be free. He just felt empty. Steve and Sam's faces were still bruised but eyes kind as they stared at Bucky. He didn't deserve their kindness when the proof of his sins was written on their skin in purple hues. He could have killed them, or killed others. Just because he hadn't this time didn't mean it wouldn't happen again. He was spiraling out of control, his own mind and body nothing more than a puppet for Hydra to use. He had been naive to think that he could be a person instead of a weapon. People were in control of their own actions. People weren't weapons of mass destruction. He was a ticking bomb waiting to explode, a volatile weapon encased in a fragile human shell. Why did he deserve to live and receive kindness when he had robbed so many others of it? Was his life really worth more than dozens of others? If Hydra gained control of him, many people would die. But if he were to die, they would never have the chance. Hydra had no other super soldiers, him the only success of Zola's twisted experiments. If he were gone Hydra would never be able to use him again. 

The pizza arrived shortly after, Bucky managing to hold the slices to eat with the metal hand. He barely tasted it, everything feeling dull and colorless. He didn't speak, Sam respecting his silence and not pressing as he engaged Steve in banal conversation. Bucky headed to his room shortly before eight, Steve reminding him to take two pain pills and Sam bidding him good night. He laid on his back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling for hours as he heard Sam leave and Steve finally go to bed. He turned his head, seeing the bottle of pain pills and a glass of water on the nightstand. Bruce's words replayed in his mind.  _You have a fast metabolism, but these pills are specifically designed for that, and so work just like they would on a normal person. A high dose could be dangerous._ He remembered how Hydra had made sure he couldn't turn a gun on himself, the shocks and beatings that had taken away his one hope of escape. But they had never worried about pills. He got up, moving as if in a dream as he closed the door softly, Koshka somewhere else in the apartment on a midnight adventure. He picked up the bottle of pills, unscrewing the top heedless of the pain in his wrist. He sat on the edge of the bed and methodically took them one by one until the bottle was empty, feeling the world start to become fuzzy. He laid down, body feeling heavy and the world spinning around him. His breaths became infrequent and labored, heartbeat slowing. He felt his extremities go numb before his eyes slipped closed, welcoming the peaceful darkness.

Something shook his shoulders and he opened his eyes blearily, the world fuzzy and distorted. A figure leaned over him, voice frantic as hands shook him.

"-ucky? Bucky, wake up! Oh god, please no." Wide blue eyes crystallized in front of him for a second before he slipped back under.

 

He opened his eyes again to a familiar white ceiling. He was in the med bay bed again, tilted upwards slightly so he was reclining against the pillows. An IV was taped to his right hand and a monitor attached to his finger, a blanket thrown over him. He could hear steady breathing coming from his right and a wave of disappointment and anger crashed over him. This was supposed to be his choice. The only thing in seventy years that had truly been his choice, and they had taken it away from him.

He turned his head slightly, seeing Steve sitting in a chair next to his bedside, asleep. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair rumpled and circles under his eyes with one elbow propped on the arm of the chair and cheek resting on his hand. As if feeling Bucky's eyes on him he stirred, raising his head and seeing Bucky. His eyes widened with barely concealed anguish and concern and Bucky turned away, staring ahead blankly. He didn't want to look at Steve, his face making something twist inside him, a mix of horror and revulsion and anger. He suddenly wanted Steve to leave him alone, wanted him gone. A rush of irritation swelled within him, his presence in the room suddenly too close, too much, his breathing too loud and worried blue eyes seeming to mock him. He had the irrational urge to punch Steve again and felt disgust well up in him at the thought. What was wrong with him?

"Buck, how are you feeling?" Steve asked, voice rough. The anger inside Bucky simmered even more. Why did he always ask that question? It was the stupidest, most unanswerable question in existence, and Bucky never wanted to hear it again. He didn't respond, glowering silently.

"Uh, maybe that's a stupid question," Steve said. "Sorry." Bucky blinked, the sudden rage washing away and leaving a distinct hollowness in his chest. Steve continued. "I just-I don't know how to deal with this sort of thing. Sam keeps trying to educate me, but in our day we didn't talk about things like feelings and trauma. Guys came back from war messed up, but we called it 'shell shock' or 'battle fatigue,' and you were considered weak if you had it. Now they call it PTSD and it's normal, apparently. Sam says I have it, and he's probably right, but it's hard to accept. And what you went through was so far beyond anything I can imagine-I'm just out of my depth, Buck. I gotta accept that things aren't just gonna get better on their own, and that I can't keep pushing all these feelings and stuff down. I can't just pretend everything's okay when it's not. So I guess what I'm saying is that I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing, and I'll probably make mistakes. Hell, I've already made a lot of mistakes. But you don't have to do this alone. I'm with you till the end of the line." Steve's tone was sincere and heartfelt, so much raw honesty in his words.

The last of the anger drained away and overwhelming grief crashed down on Bucky, tears stinging his eyes. His chest hitched, something like a sob escaping. He clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut as tears slipped from beneath his lids. A warm hand covered his, squeezing gently.

"I'm so sorry, Buck," Steve whispered. "But why? Why did you think you had to do this?" He sounded lost, voice breaking with grief.

Bucky swallowed. "I had to," he choked out. "I can't-I can't trust my own mind."

"I know that must be scary. But we can help you. We'll find a way to get rid of the trigger words," Steve said earnestly.

Bucky shook his head. "I'm not sure I'm worth all this, Steve," he whispered, eyes still squeezed shut.

"Of course you are," Steve breathed. "What you did all those years, it wasn't you."

"But I did it." He hitched a breath, opening his eyes and meeting Steve's. "I did it. And if Hydra finds me, I'll do it again. And Steve-I-I can't." His voice broke, chin trembling. "I can't."

Steve's hand tightened around his, tears spilling from his eyes. "I know, Buck. I know. But I promise, I won't let that happen."

Bucky met his gaze desperately. "I need you to promise me, Steve. Promise me that if Hydra makes me into that again you'll put a bullet between my eyes."

He could see Steve's heart breaking, and hated himself even more for striking the blow. "I don't know if I can do that, Buck," Steve said. "But I promise that if that happens, I won't let you hurt anyone. I'll do whatever it takes. You have my word."

Bucky exhaled, seeing the truth in Steve's eyes. He knew that Steve would never let him hurt anyone, no matter what. He remembered his words on the helicarrier.  _People are gonna die, Buck. I can't let that happen. Please don't make me do this._ Whatever his personal feelings, Steve would always do the right thing. Bucky knew that if saving people meant hurting Bucky, Steve would be willing to do it, because he knew that Bucky would want him to. Bucky had always been able to see straight into Steve's heart, which burned with an unquenchable sense of right and wrong, of truth and justice. Steve Rogers was the most transparent person he'd ever met, no falseness or lies. He said what he meant and he meant what he said. It was what made him so great.

Bucky was made of lies and fake selves and fronts, had always been the shadow to Steve's light. He had put on a brave face for most of his life, never letting anyone see who he really was. A queer kid, in love with his best friend. A soldier, fractured by Zola's experiments. A hardened sniper, picking off men from behind a scope without feeling anything, Steve always in his sights. Steve was the only one who had ever glimpsed into him, had peeled back his layers and dismantled his walls with the same fiery determination as when he fought bullies. But Bucky had always tried to shut him out, had never truly revealed himself to Steve. He was Steve's protector, his lover, the one who always had his back. He had focused so much on keeping Steve safe that his feelings had always taken a back seat. He hadn't wanted to burden Steve with all his worries as well. But maybe he could let Steve take some of the load now, trust that he would have Bucky's back as well. He still felt he didn't deserve this, felt empty and cold and angry, but for Steve, he could try. Maybe it had been selfish to try and die when he knew it would break Steve's heart again. He would give anything to protect Steve Rogers. 

He took a deep breath, nodding. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

He saw Steve's face break in a relieved half-smile, tears still streaming down his face. "Is that why you did it then? You didn't want to be the Soldier again?"

Bucky swallowed. "Yes. And..I-" he broke off.

Steve searched his face. "And what?" he asked softly.

"I'm so tired," Bucky whispered, the admission leaving his lips. "I'm just so tired." He took a deep breath, the words spilling from him in a rush of emotion. "I just want everything to stop. Everything hurts and I have no control over anything. I thought I had choices but it wasn't real and I didn't  _choose_ any of this but things keep happening whether I want them to or not and I can't even control my own mind or actions because that can be taken away too. And this was the  _one_ choice I actually had, and Hydra had taken that away before because I kept trying to kill myself over and over rather than be their weapon. But they never accounted for the pills. No, I could still  _choose_ to do that. And I thought that if I couldn't control anything at least I could make sure that no one else could control me ever again. But then I woke up, and the one thing I have actually chosen in seventy years-hell, longer than that- was taken away." He heaved for breath, trembling with the weight of his words. The anger was sparking again, something heavy and painful sitting in his chest but a modicum of relief flowing through him at getting it out.

Steve was staring open-mouthed, pain filling his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he said, voice anguished. "I had no idea. Why didn't you say anything before?"

Bucky shrugged, looking away as angry tears pricked his eyes. He swallowed, feeling a hot ball of emotion in his throat as he clenched the metal fist.

"I'm so sorry," Steve repeated. "I can't even imagine how you're feeling. And I'm sorry we took this choice away from you but I can't lose you again, Buck. Please." Steve's voice was lined with pain, hand gripping Bucky's tightly. "I'll do whatever it takes to help you but please. Don't make me do that again."

Bucky clenched his jaw, tears starting to spill down his face. "You wanna know my darkest secret?" Steve continued. "I could have figured out a way to escape the Valkyrie. But when I put it down, my only thought was that I would see you again. And I'm not saying this to guilt you into staying. But I know how it feels. Those first couple years after I woke up, I was so tired. I didn't want to be here, didn't want to live in a world without you, especially when everything and everyone else I knew was gone. But I've found friends, and a purpose, and most importantly, I've found you again. You're everything to me, Bucky. I picked up the shield for you and I would give it up again for you in a heartbeat. I would walk to Austria a million times if it would bring you home. I would kill all of Hydra with my bare hands if it could take away the pain you feel. So yes, the world may be tough, and messed up, and filled with pain and suffering. But it's also beautiful, and incredible, and filled with extraordinary people who are kind and brave and just. I found a reason to keep going, and you just gotta find one too. Because I love you, and goddamnit if you're going then you're taking me with you. And I know that's unhealthy and all sorts of wrong but I'm tired too, Buck. We're both a hundred years old, and I think it's about time we got our goddamn happy ending. So either we both die, or we both find a way to live. Either way, I'm with you till the end of the line."

Tears were streaming down Bucky's face as he stared at Steve, something in him flayed open. "Steve," he whispered brokenly. He tugged Steve's hand and scooted over on the bed, Steve's face similarly tear-streaked as he got up, hesitantly sitting next to Bucky. Bucky leaned his head on Steve's chest, a gentle arm coming around him to settle on his waist. And then he started to cry in earnest for the first time in memory, sobs wracking his body as he pressed his face into Steve's shirt, curling into him. Steve's arm tightened around him, his other hand still holding Bucky's. For once, he welcomed the touch. Steve's warmth surrounded him, his embrace safe and familiar. Every emotion that had been bottled up inside Bucky came out in a torrent, unleashed into Steve's arms. Steve held him, crying silently as his thumb stroked the back of Bucky's hand in soothing motions. After minutes or maybe hours Bucky's sobs finally quieted, a deep exhaustion settling over him. He felt raw but clean, like lancing an infected wound. Steve continued to hold him, breathing even and deep. Bucky drifted into sleep, Steve's heartbeat steady in his chest.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

When he woke again he was still pressed against Steve, cheek resting against his chest and right hand entwined with his. Steve's arm was wound around him loosely, a line of pressure against his back. He stayed there for a second, warm and safe, before sitting up and gently extricating his hand. Blood flowed back to his fingers as he wiggled them, his neck aching from the awkward position it had been in. Steve woke at the movement, eyes blinking open slowly as Bucky watched. Their faces were inches away, Bucky's shoulder overlapping Steve's where his arm snaked around him. Steve stared at him with sleepy eyes, breaths brushing Bucky's face.

"Hey," he said softly.

Bucky's lip twitched. "Hey." 

Steve's hand came up to brush a strand of hair out of Bucky's face and he flinched, Steve freezing.

"Sorry," Steve said, lowering his hand and looking guilty.

Bucky shook his head. "It's fine," he said hoarsely. His throat felt raw and his eyes puffy from all the crying, exhaustion still sitting heavy in his core. 

Steve removed his arm from around Bucky, setting it in his lap. Bucky immediately missed the contact and pressed his shoulder into Steve's, reaching over to grab Steve's hand. He needed the contact like he needed air, an emptiness in him that could only be filled by touch. He leaned his head on Steve's shoulder, feeling him relax as he squeezed Bucky's hand.

Sam walked into the room, stopping in surprise as he took in Steve and Bucky. He raised an eyebrow, coming closer.

"Man, you guys are still cuddling? This is too much." His words were light but he assessed Bucky with critical eyes, face cautious. "Barnes. You gave us quite the scare last night. Where are we at now?"

"Better," Bucky said.

"Okay, that's good to hear, but you understand that we're still gonna have to put you under watch. And you gotta see someone about this. I know your last encounter with a psychologist didn't exactly go well, but you need professional help. Can you agree to that?"

Bucky hesitated a moment before replying. He thought about Steve, and all they'd talked about. "Yes," he said quietly.

Sam visibly relaxed. "Great. That's really brave of you. Listen, Stark's vetting people and we're taking every precaution so there won't going to be a repeat of yesterday. Real psychologists are there to help, not to hurt. It's not going to be easy, but it does get better." His eyes were kind and honest, and Bucky nodded slightly, raising his head off Steve's shoulder and looking at him.

"But only if Steve does too," he said. If he was getting help, then Steve should as well. Even he knew that Steve had issues. 

Sam blinked, looking at Steve. "You want Steve to see a psychologist too?"

Bucky nodded. He felt Steve tense next to him and glanced over, meeting his eyes. "I live, you live, right?"

Steve searched his eyes before nodding, taking a deep breath. "Okay. Yeah. If Buck has to, then I will as well."

Sam looked dumbfounded. "Well, that's actually...great. It's a really good idea. I'll let Stark know. In the meantime, I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to be monitored around the clock. And Bruce will be giving you your pain meds whenever it's time. No sharp objects, no locked doors, and you gotta check in with me or Steve on how you're feeling. I know it sucks, but we can't take any chances. Understand?"

Bucky nodded but frowned, the familiar helpless feeling rising. Now he had even less control. Steve shifted, looking at him intently.

"Is this like what you were talking about before? Not feeling like you have any choices or control?" Steve always could read him like a book.

Bucky hesitated before nodding, not meeting Steve's eyes. Sam made a soft sound of realization.

"I've been trying to let you make choices about everything since you got here, but it's obviously not enough if you're still feeling like this. Let me ask you-what do you feel is most out of your control?"

Bucky opened and closed his mouth, trying to think. Everything. But one thing? "I don't know," he said in frustration. "Things keep-happening, and I can't do anything about them."

"Like what happened with the psychologist?" Steve asked.

Bucky nodded. "But before that-I just keep...going along with things. And everyone makes things sound like choices, but they aren't."

"How about when we brought you to the tower? I'm pretty sure you said you didn't want to come here, but we brought you anyway and then you agreed to stay. Is that kinda what you're talking about?" Sam questioned thoughtfully.

He nodded. "I said no," he said quietly. "But then I got sick. And then I was here, so I couldn't leave. And now I want to stay, but it wasn't my choice in the first place."

"And getting sick from what Hydra did to you was just another thing you couldn't control," Sam finished. "We also treated you without your consent and you rightfully freaked out cause you woke up in a bed with needles stuck in you. But we justified it as saving your life, and pressured you to stay. We pushed all this medical information at you and told you what to take and what to do." He was on a roll now. "And then the files hit the internet, which you also had no control over, and you said yes to the press conference, but I'm guessing you didn't really feel you had a choice in that either." Bucky nodded. "And then you had your control completely ripped away by that psychologist and that was probably your breaking point. I'm guessing what you did last night was a last ditch effort to regain some control?"

Bucky nodded. Sam had managed to put in into words exactly and it made relief blossom in his chest. "Yes. Yes," he said emphatically. Steve squeezed his hand.

Sam smiled. "Okay, I can work with that. The only thing that I'm gonna say is non-negotiable is your safety. We can work on coming up with some ways to make you feel more in control without hurting yourself. I'm also hearing that you don't feel you can say no to things or that you really have a choice, and we can work on that as well. Does that sound good? You can say no."

"No," Bucky said, testing, and froze. He waited, holding his breath, but nothing happened. Sam simply stared at him evenly, waiting for his opinion. He relaxed. "Yes." 

Sam smiled. "Great. Now, do you wanna get out of here? Bruce said you're stabilized so there's no need for you to stay here. He gave you naloxone to counter the effects of the drugs, so that IV is just fluids now, and your wrist is healed enough that he removed the brace." Bucky nodded. "Okay, can I remove the IV? I promise I'm qualified; I was a pararescue so I have a fair amount of medical knowledge." Sam chuckled.

Bucky disentangled his hand from Steve's and set in on his leg. Sam moved forward, stopping the line and removing the needle with smooth efficiency. "Alright, you're all set. Feel free to return to your floor at your own pace, and it's your choice whether you want me to come along as well. Obviously one of us needs to be with you to make sure you're staying safe, but it's up to you who that is."

Bucky thought before replying. "Just Steve," he said hesitantly, waiting for Sam to be offended or angry.

Sam looked neither, nodding calmly. "Okay. I'll leave you two alone, but is it okay if I drop by for dinner?"

Bucky nodded, relief unfurling in his chest. People hadn't been leaving him alone since he'd gotten here, and to be able to decide exactly who was with him at a specific time was freeing.

"Great. I'll see you guys later." Sam turned, exiting the room and leaving Steve and Bucky alone, pressed together in the narrow bed. Steve turned to look at him, eyes soft.

"Ready to get out of here?"

Bucky nodded. Steve swung his legs over, getting out of the bed. His side felt cold and empty without the contact, something in him craving it again. He got out on his side, Steve coming around ready to help. He stumbled, muscles weak, and Steve reached out to steady him but he flinched away, a spike of panic in his chest. Fuck. Steve withdrew his hand, a distraught expression on his face. Bucky cursed himself internally. He wanted the contact, but he couldn't stand to be touched. What was wrong with him?

Steve was still standing in front of him with a helpless expression on his face. Bucky moved closer, slinging his right arm around his shoulders as Steve's hand carefully settled on his waist. This time the contact was welcome, no trace of panic rising. He let Steve support him as he walked to the elevator, legs unsteady and muscles aching. When they got to their floor Steve gently deposited him on the couch, Koshka emerging from nowhere to settle on his lap. Steve smiled at her, bending down to scratch her ears.

"She saved your life, you know," he said.

Bucky frowned. "What do you mean?"

"She woke me up at one a.m. by banging on your door and meowing loudly. When I opened it to let her in, I saw you and knew something was wrong. Otherwise..." Steve swallowed. "Otherwise I might not have known until it was too late."

Bucky looked down, suddenly ashamed. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"I know, Buck. But you're here now, and that's all that matters. Are you hungry?"

Bucky nodded before squinting in confusion. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine. You woke up at about four this morning and then we both slept till just now. I can make us some eggs and toast if you want."

Bucky nodded again. 

Steve smiled before moving towards the kitchen, faint sounds signaling his cooking progress. Bucky stroked Koshka, picking up the remote and turning on the tv. The news came on, a banner along the bottom reading:

FBI DROPS ALL CHARGES AGAINST BARNES

Two reporters were sitting at a desk in deep discussion. "Based on evidence from the files and an apparent psychological evaluation, the FBI has decided to drop all charges against James Barnes, AKA The Winter Soldier. The FBI released a statement saying they consider Barnes to be a victim of torture and brainwashing, and that he cannot be held accountable for his actions. Based on what we've seen from the files, I think everyone can concur." Here's a statement from FBI agent Daniel Gregg. The screen changed to a video of a man behind a podium, speaking to a crowd of reporters. He seemed vaguely familiar, and Bucky thought he might have been one of the agents in the room during the psych eval. He was speaking, tone measured and even and face grave.

"There can be no doubt that Barnes is both wholly unaccountable for and horrified by the atrocities he has been forced to commit. He has endured beyond what anyone should ever have to endure, but never once stopped fighting. I have never seen anyone with such a determination to protect others, even at the expense of his own life. He should be treated with the respect and dignity he deserves, and the real perpetrators of these horrific acts brought to justice." The clip disappeared, the reporters coming back on screen. The female reporter shook her head, looking affected.

"Wow. Powerful words. It makes you wonder what Barnes revealed in his psychological evaluation. Either way, I think we can agree based on the evidence from the files that James Barnes was truly the longest serving prisoner of war in history, and that he fought his captors every inch of the way. It's a truly inspiring story of courage and strength through great trial, and so from all of us: Sergeant Barnes, we salute you. You have served your country above and beyond the line of duty, and showed all of us what it truly means to be a hero." Bucky felt tears prick his eyes.

The male reporter to her left spoke up. "Cheers to that. Thank you, Alisyn. Alright, CNN Newsroom starts now at 9:00, this has been Alisyn Camerota and Chris Cuomo here for the Saturday morning news on New Day, thanks for watching."

The show disappeared, a commercial coming on. Steve walked into the room, setting down plates of steaming eggs and toast on the coffee table as he glanced at Bucky hesitantly.

"You heard that?" Bucky asked, turning off the tv.

Steve nodded, sinking down on the couch. "I think they're right. The FBI agents in the room yesterday were apparently really affected by what happened. They saw how you tried to stop yourself, and that it wasn't you. I don't think anyone is going to be coming after you ever again."

"But how can they just ignore everything I did?"

"It wasn't you. You never wanted to do any of it, and you tried to resist. They know that."

"But Hydra still used me to do it. It doesn't matter if I wanted it or not. If Hydra gets control of me again I'll kill more people, and that's on me. It would be safer if they never had the chance."

Steve sighed. "And what if Hydra captured me tomorrow and made me do those things? Would it be safer if I killed myself too?"

Bucky sputtered. "No, of course not. But that's different-"

"It's not any different. We're both capable of a lot of good but also a lot of bad. If Hydra managed to capture me I could hurt a lot of people, same as you. But if I thought that way then I'd never be able to do any of the good things I've done. It's that simple."

Bucky's mouth opened and closed, trying to come up with a rebuttal. Steve's words struck a chord, a sudden clarity running through him. It was so...simple. It felt like finally seeing the forest through the trees, something right in front of him that he had never considered. He leaned forward, snagging his plate off the table and taking a bite in lieu of answering. He saw Steve smile smugly out of the corner of his eye before grabbing his own plate. Bucky should've known by now to never try and win a fight with Steve Rogers. The little punk would always win.

"Hey Buck," Steve said, swallowing a bite of eggs, "did you want to call Imani and Maria? They don't know about anything that's happened."

Bucky paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Fuck. He had completely forgotten to contact them, too wrapped up in his negative spiral. He set down the fork, nodding. "Yes." He thought about having to tell them about his suicide attempt and felt something inside him curl in shame. After everything they had done for him, he hadn't even told them about the psych eval and then tried to kill himself without saying goodbye. What kind of a person did that?

"We can call them after breakfast if you want," Steve interjected into his thoughts. "Do you want to talk to them alone or with me?"

Bucky looked up. "With you. I don't know if I-" He swallowed. "I don't think I can say everything."

Steve nodded. "I understand. Whatever you need." He took a bite of toast, glancing at Bucky. Bucky finished the rest of his plate, nerves coiled in his stomach. When they were done Steve took their dishes to the kitchen, returning with his phone in hand.

"How do you want to do this?"

Bucky hesitated before dislodging Koshka-who curled up again on the couch-and getting up, patting the corner of the couch. "Sit."

Steve raised an eyebrow, sitting obediently. Bucky rolled his eyes, twirling his finger. Steve complied with his silent message, swinging his legs around so he was lengthwise on the couch. Bucky carefully approached and sat down, settling in between Steve's legs and leaning back against his chest. He put the metal hand on his stomach, unwilling to touch Steve with it, and Steve's left arm came around him. He tilted his head slightly to see Steve's face, head pillowed on his shoulder.

"This okay?"

Steve nodded, a soft smile spreading across his face. "Very okay." He brought the phone up in front of them, both having a clear view to the screen. "Ready?"

Bucky nodded. Steve found Imani's contact, pressing the button for a video call. It rang for a few seconds before being picked up, Imani's face appearing on the screen. Her face split in a wide smile when she saw them, Maria appearing behind her shoulder.

"Hey, if it isn't my favorite super soldiers in love," Imani said brightly.

"You two are absolutely adorable," Maria remarked.

Steve turned his head to look at Bucky. "They already knew?"

"They knew," Bucky confirmed. "Sorry."

Steve shook his head slightly. "No, it's fine Buck. I'm glad."

Imani and Maria were smiling on the other end. Imani spoke up. "This makes me so happy. You guys deserve this. But anyway, how are things? Based on the news, it looks like the psych eval went well."

Steve and Bucky shared a look. Steve cleared his throat. "Um, well, not really. Actually, it was pretty...horrible. Um-" He glanced at Bucky. "Do you want to tell them?" Bucky shook his head, looking away from the screen. "Okay, well, it turns out the FBI psychologist was actually...Russian? Hydra? We're not sure, but he used these Russian words to trigger Bucky-"

"Like from the red book?" Imani interjected.

Steve paused. "How did you know?"

"Bucky told us about it after an...incident. But continue."

Bucky felt Steve glance at him before continuing. "So he triggered Bucky and sent him straight for the room full of FBI agents. Stark and Sam and I managed to keep him contained and no one was hurt, and he eventually snapped out of it when we hit him really hard on the head." He turned his head, speaking softly in Bucky's ear. "How much do you want me to tell them?"

Bucky shrugged, still looking away as he twisted the fabric of his sweatpants with his flesh hand. "Everything." They deserved to know.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded.

Steve took a breath, his left hand rubbing circles on Bucky's hip against the couch cushions. "Okay. So Bucky kept kind of coming back to reality during it and trying to stop himself, and he ended up breaking his own arm. Twice. And of course he was horrified afterwards, and we were trying to calm him down, but then the psychologist said another trigger word that kind of...shut Bucky down. We tried to set his arm and eventually had to sedate him to move him and hoped he'd come out of it after. Luckily, he did, and he had minimal physical injuries. But-" He took another deep breath, glancing at Bucky. "I should've known-"

"Steve," Bucky admonished lowly.

"Right. I _didn't_ know how Bucky was feeling. But last night he uh-" Steve swallowed, sounding choked up. "He-"

"Swallowed an entire bottle of pain pills," Bucky finished quietly.

"I-uh, thankfully I found him in time," Steve continued. "We're okay now. But it's been a rough couple days."

Bucky glanced up to the screen to see Imani and Maria looking at him, tears in their eyes. He looked away, feeling ashamed.

"Oh mi querido," Maria said. "I'm so sorry. You have been through so much. But you are getting help, yes? You're going to be okay?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"That's good. It's okay to need help," Imani said. "You're allowed to feel like this after everything you've been through. It's normal."

He nodded. He wasn't sure there was anything normal about him, but it helped to hear. 

"I'm glad you told us," Imani continued. "Thank you for trusting us."

He looked up, meeting her eyes through the screen in surprise. He saw nothing but understanding and compassion in their faces, eyes warm and steady. Their lack of judgement or disappointment in him felt like a weight had lifted off his chest, relief filling him and leaving him lightheaded. He exhaled, giving a tentative smile; the barest quirk of his lips.

"Do you want us to come over?" Maria asked. "We're both free all weekend."

He nodded. "Tomorrow?"

"Of course. Noon okay?"

"Yes."

"Alright, we'll be there. Ooh, have you started The Hobbit yet?"

"Yes. I think I remember it."

Imani beamed. "That's great! Steve says you read it when it came out, but unfortunately J.R.R. Tolkien didn't publish The Lord of the Rings trilogy until 1954, so you wouldn't have read those. I'll bring them tomorrow so you can read them after you finish The Hobbit."

His lip twitched. "Okay."

"We're going to the store so I'm gonna let you go, but we'll see you guys tomorrow." She looked at him intently. "Stay safe, okay? You can always talk to us, or Steve, or Sam. You don't have to go through this alone."

He nodded, swallowing.

"Sí, you're never alone mi querido," Maria added. "And I'm bringing cookies tomorrow. So you have that to look forward to." She glanced at Steve. "Take care of him."

Steve nodded. "I will."

"I know." Imani smiled.

With a last wave, they ended the call. Steve reached over to set the phone on the coffee table, gently placing his hand over Bucky's where it lay across his stomach. Bucky let his head rest back against Steve's shoulder, relaxing into his embrace.

"We used to sit the other way around," he remarked. "When you were small. When you got sick we'd sit like this but I was the one holding you."

He felt Steve's chest expand. "Yeah. You'd sit me up against you so I could breathe better, and you even used to try and feed me like this, as much as I hated it."

Bucky huffed a laugh. "Yeah, you did. God, that feels so long ago."

"It was," Steve replied. "Just-Buck, I want you to know that I don't expect you to be the same person. God knows I've changed, and I wasn't brainwashed by Hydra for seventy years. You don't have to prove anything."

_Right. Cause you've got nothin' to prove._ The words swam up from memory, Steve's face defiant and resolute in his mind's eye. "I know," he said quietly. "I know that. But Steve-there's nothing on this earth that could change the way I feel about you. It was the one thing Hydra could never quite erase. So whatever else I am, I'm yours. Till the end of the line." It was the most eloquent thing he'd managed to say in seventy years, more than the nods and yeses and broken sentences that had filled the silences.

Steve's arm tightened around him and he tilted his head onto Bucky's, breaths uneven. "God I love you, Buck," he whispered. 

"I love you too," Bucky whispered back, the first time he'd said it out loud since a cold morning in 1944, the jagged peaks of mountains looming and wind whipping at their faces. He hadn't known then that it would be the last time he would get to say it, get to wake up next to Steve and be surrounded by the Commandos. It was just another mission, a train rumored to be carrying Zola. He had had no idea that in an instant, everything would change. That Bucky Barnes would fall, and his world with him.

He sat up, turning to face Steve. His gaze flitted down to his lips, Steve mirroring the action. Slowly, he leaned forward, eyes closing as he kissed Steve softly for the first time in seventy years. And this, this he remembered. Everything else might have changed, but Steve's lips were as sure and familiar as always. If he kept his eyes closed, he could almost imagine they were back in Brooklyn, young and innocent and madly in love. It only lasted a moment, chaste and soft, but Bucky's lips tingled as he drew back, Steve's eyes fluttering open to meet his. They stared at each other in the tangible silence, noses almost brushing and breaths mingling in the space between them. Bucky's mouth curved upwards inexorably, inevitably.

"Hey," he said softly.

Steve smiled, and it was home. "Hey."

 


	20. Chapter 20

When Sam came for dinner Bucky was laying with his head in Steve's lap as Steve read the Hobbit, Bucky having finished it early that afternoon. He was dozing, his head resting on a folded-up blanket in Steve's lap and another one thrown over him, Koshka curled by his feet. Steve's hands never strayed from the book or the couch, both having learned very quickly that Bucky's head was a no-go for touch. Even placing his head in Steve's lap had taken an enormous amount of trust, and it had taken the whole afternoon for him to completely relax, feeling vulnerable and twitchy. Now he was drifting in and out of sleep, lulled by the occasional sound of turning pages and Steve's even breathing. He awoke when Sam came in, turning his head to see him as he stopped in front of the couch. Steve placed the book down next to him, carefully putting his hands on either side of him and away from Bucky.

"Hey Sam. How's it going?"

Sam studied them intently, brow furrowed. "Uh, good. Listen, I wasn't going to ask but I kinda have to. Were you guys like-normally this...close?"

Bucky turned his head to look up at Steve. "He doesn't know?"

Steve blushed. "Uh, no. I never really told anyone."

"Told anyone what?" Sam narrowed his eyes, looking between Steve and Bucky. Bucky cocked an eyebrow at Steve and Steve nodded.

Bucky sighed, turning to face Sam. "We're both super fucking queer. We've been together since-what year was it?-"

"Uh, 1933," Steve supplied.

"1933," Bucky continued. "Apparently it's okay now."

"And I'm actually bisexual," Steve added.

Bucky frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means I like men and women. Both. All."

"Oh, then yeah. And I'm gay." He looked back at Sam, who looked shellshocked.

"You-what-but-" he sputtered. "I mean, that's great. I obviously don't have a problem with it, but-just-what?! That was definitely not in the history textbooks."

"Yeah, I can't see why not," Steve said dryly. "I'm sure they would have loved it if Captain America was queer."

Sam stared. "This is-this is great. Oh my god, man. Captain America is bisexual and in love with Bucky Barnes. Fox News would have an aneurysm."

"I'm sure they will," Steve said calmly.

Sam blinked. "Wait, you're planning on telling them?"

Steve looked down at Bucky. "Well, it's up to you, but after losing you for seventy years I don't give a damn what they think. I'm certainly not going to hide it."

Bucky's lip twitched. "Yeah."

Steve grinned. Sam was still looking stunned. "Wow. Just wow. So many things make sense now. Damn." He shook his head. "It's gonna take me a while to wrap my head around this, but I'm happy for you guys. Really."

Steve nodded. "Thanks, Sam."

"Anyway, now that you've blown my mind for the day, how's it going? Barnes, you're looking better."

He nodded in Steve's lap. "Yeah."

"That's good. You hungry? I'm thinking we make pad thai."

"Sounds good to me," Steve replied. "Bucky?"

"Sure."

"Alright, there should be ingredients in the kitchen. You guys wanna help?"

Bucky sat up, divesting himself of the blanket. "Yes." After Imani had showed him how to make breakfast he had developed a desire to cook for himself. It made him feel like he wasn't depending on others for food like he had with Hydra.

Sam led the way, Bucky and Steve trailing after him. He showed them how to make the dish, cooking the noodles, vegetables, and shrimp and making the sauce. It was ready in under a half an hour, delicious smells filling the kitchen and making Bucky's mouth water. They gathered around the table, doling it out into bowls. Sam rustled around in the kitchen drawers and eventually produced three pairs of chopsticks triumphantly, passing them out.

"You gotta eat this with chopsticks, it's a rule," he said. He showed them how to use them, Bucky quickly getting the hang of it and digging in with gusto. It was flavorful and filling, salt and spices making his mouth tingle. Warm and full, Steve shooting him soft glances across the table, he felt for the first time like everything might be okay.

Bruce came over at eight to give Bucky his pain medication, tactfully avoiding the reasons for the supervised visit. Sam sat him down at the kitchen table and discussed the protocol for keeping him safe, including no sharp objects or weapons, no locked doors, and checking in with one of them every so often. He leveled Bucky with a serious look that demanded complete honesty, leaning forward slightly.

"Are you gonna be able to keep yourself safe tonight?"

Bucky nodded, meeting his eyes. "Yes." While the pain remained in his chest with a persistent ache, he no longer had the frantic, desperate desire to end his life that had consumed him last night.

Sam looked relieved. "That's really good to hear. But if you feel like you can't, you make sure to tell one of us, okay?"

Bucky nodded again.

"So tonight, you're gonna have to keep your door open, and Steve's going to check on you at some point during the night. Does that sound okay?"

Bucky hesitated, wanting to voice his desire but the words sticking in his throat. He glanced over at Steve, who was sitting next to him at the table. "I could-stay with Steve?" After yesterday it was like a dam had broken, and he wanted to be as close to Steve as possible at all times. The thought of sleeping alone suddenly felt wrong. He and Steve had slept side by side in Brooklyn and during the war, never apart for long. He remembered not being able to sleep without Steve next to him, listening to his breathing to assure himself that he was still alive, even after the serum. He didn't know how he had forgotten that.

Steve lit up hopefully, a smile breaking across his face. "Yeah Buck, I'd love that."

Bucky turned back to Sam, who blinked. "Uh, yeah. That would actually be great. Then he wouldn't have to keep checking on you." He rolled his eyes, expression losing its seriousness. "And now I know you guys are literally boyfriends, so that makes sense."

Bucky wrinkled his nose. "Boyfriends?"

"Sam, We're almost a hundred years old," Steve said. 

Sam threw up his hands. "I don't know, man. Life partners? Super soldiers in love? Still a better love story than Twilight? I mean, come on, you guys have the most tragically beautiful like, eighty year love story. They should make a movie about you two. I have no idea what to call you guys."

Bucky mouthed "Twilight" silently, thoroughly confused.

"I never really thought about it," Steve mused.

"Well, whatever you guys are, I'm happy for you. Just-I'm sorry Steve but I have to say this. Barnes, are you sure you okay with this? I don't want you to feel pressured into anything, as good as Steve's intentions are. I need to know that you can say no to things if you need to. No offense Steve."

Steve shook his head. "None taken, I understand. Buck?"

Bucky nodded. "It's-my choice. We-figure things out. It's good." Like Steve not touching his head, or making the first moves. There was an unspoken trust and communication there that set Bucky at ease.

Sam nodded. "Okay, good. I just wanted to make sure. If you ever feel uncomfortable, all you have to do is say no. And I'm sure Steve will listen." He shot a glance at Steve and Steve nodded emphatically.

"Alright, well that's settled. Imma head out, but can I join you guys for breakfast tomorrow?"

Bucky nodded. 

"Imani and Maria are coming over at noon," Steve added.

"Great. I'll see you tomorrow morning then. Have a good night guys."

"Good night, Sam," Steve responded. Bucky gave an attempt at a smile. Sam left with a wave and a grin, disappearing through the elevator doors.

Steve looked over at Bucky, yawning. "I'm beat. Wanna head to bed?"

Bucky nodded. They both got ready, taking turns showering and brushing their teeth. Bucky got dressed in his room, self-consciousness rearing its head for the first time in memory. Even as a teenager he was comfortable with his body around Steve, but now the thought of his arm and shoulder on display made him feel vulnerable and wrong. When he was dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt he ventured into Steve's room, suddenly awkward and hesitant. Steve was already there, climbing into bed and scooting over to make room for him. He approached slowly, climbing in next to him and settling on his right side. Steve slid down and rolled to face him, minty breath washing over his face as he studied him.

"You okay?" he asked.

Bucky nodded. Steve smiled before turning over, his back a clear invitation. Bucky scooted forward until his chest was flush with Steve's back, the same position they had slept in for years when Steve was small and sickly. He almost made to throw his left arm over Steve before he realized it was metal, hesitating. Steve turned his head slightly, feeling his hesitation. His eyes flicked to the metal hand and his face softened.

"I don't care, Buck," he said. "It's okay."

Bucky still hesitated, unwilling to touch Steve with the metal hand that had brought so much death and destruction. He could still Steve's face bloodying under it, his hand around his throat. Steve reached back with his left hand slowly until he grasped the metal wrist, only the pressure registering. He pulled it over him and tucked it to his chest, thumb rubbing circles on the metal hand. Bucky let out a shaky breath, tucking his right hand under the pillow and pressing his forehead to the back of Steve's head. Koshka jumped up, settling at their feet, and Bucky relaxed. He fell asleep quickly, Steve warm and safe against his chest.

***

The next few days passed in much the same way. Imani and Maria visited, bringing with them the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, which Bucky quickly tore through before passing on to Steve. Stark was scarce, working on projects and the perpetual Stark Industries and Avengers business, but he came up on Wednesday to inform Bucky and Steve that he had found a psychologist for each, as they couldn't see the same one due to their shared history. Both of the psychologists focused on PTSD in veterans, but Bucky's had extra experience working with victims of torture and prisoners of war. Both had been thoroughly vetted and questioned to rule out any Hydra ties, and were respected members of their field and at the forefront of effective treatment for PTSD. Bucky and Steve both had appointments to meet them on Thursday, albeit at different times. Bucky's session would be held in an isolated, secure room on an upper floor, with Steve, Sam, and Tony right outside in case anything happened. Bucky would be given a concealed panic button he could press if the psychologist tried to trigger him or hurt him in any way, thus guaranteeing that the events of the previous week wouldn't happen again. The safeguards helped to mitigate Bucky's fear, but he still felt anxious about seeing a psychologist for a variety of reasons. Besides the fact that the only one he'd ever met had been Hydra, the thought of talking about everything that had happened to him with a stranger was almost inconceivable. But he had promised that he would get help, and if Steve could do it then so could he.

Steve went first on Thursday morning, heading up to his session without the safety protocols of Bucky's. When he returned he looked thoughtful but okay, and Bucky relaxed fractionally. Obviously nothing bad had happened, so maybe it would be okay. Finally, it was his turn. At ten to two he made his way up to the secure floor where the psychologist had already set up office, entourage in tow. The panic button was safely stowed in his pocket and he fingered it nervously, reassuring himself that it was there. When he got to the floor Steve, Sam, and Tony took their places at strategic locations around it, unknown to the psychologist. Taking a deep breath, Bucky walked to the office door, a plaque reading "Kathleen Johnson, PhD." He knocked, the door swinging open a moment later to reveal a woman in her late forties, curly brown hair drawn up in a bun and green eyes sharp but warm. She smiled, opening the door wider.

"Hi, you must be James. Come in." She didn't offer a hand to shake, simply stepping back and gesturing for him to come in. He stepped past the threshold cautiously, scanning the office. A simple armchair on the left sat facing a plush couch on the right against the wall, a small coffee table between them. Behind that was a desk littered with a computer, stacks of paper, coffee mugs, picture frames, and a couple small potted plants. A few paintings hung on the wall, abstract pastel colors forming calming patterns. A tall lamp stood by the couch, another on the desk. A small window was behind the armchair to the left, directly across from the couch, and looked out over Manhattan. The couch afforded the best sight lines to the door and the window, and would put his back against the wall. He wondered if the psychologist had planned that. She sat down in the armchair, Bucky copying her motions and sitting on the edge of the couch tensely. She sat calmly, holding a clipboard with paper and a pen.

"Is it okay if I call you James?" she questioned. "Or do you want me to call you something else?"

He hesitated, eyes flicking around the room again. "My name is Bucky."

She smiled. "Okay Bucky. It's nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Johnson, but you can call me Kate. Let's start by talking a little bit about what we're both doing here. I'm a therapist who specializes in Cognitive Processing Therapy for PTSD. I understand that you've been through significant trauma during your captivity with Hydra, and you're currently struggling in trying to recover from it. Usually patients come in and I don't know their trauma, but your case is unique. I want to preface this by saying that I have read all the files and am aware of most of what happened to you as well as received a briefing of your recovery here from Mr. Stark, but I want everything we talk about to come directly from you. This is your space to heal and share whatever you need to with me, okay?"

He nodded, swallowing.

First of all, do you know what PTSD is?"

He shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again. Steve had mentioned that it was like shell-shock, but he didn't really know what it was.

Kate's eyes crinkled. "That's okay. Most people don't. PTSD stands for post-traumatic stress disorder. It's a condition that develops in response to a trauma, like combat or assault or torture. They used to call it 'shell-shock' or 'battle fatigue' because soldiers from the first and second world wars came back with all these symptoms that they didn't really understand. Now we have a much better understanding of it, and we know that many people suffer from it. It's not anything to be ashamed of, it's just our brain's reaction to things it was never designed to handle. 

"Now, usually the criteria for diagnosing PTSD is more than one month with these symptoms, but because of the level of trauma you've gone through and the length of time we're going to go ahead and classify you as having it. The symptoms of PTSD fall into three clusters. The first cluster is the re-experiencing of the trauma in some way. This includes nightmares about the trauma or other scary dreams; flashbacks, when you act or feel as if the incident is recurring; intrusive thoughts, which are memories that suddenly pop into your mind. You might have the intrusive thoughts when there is something in the environment to remind you of the trauma or even when there is nothing there to remind you of it. Common times to have these memories are when you are falling asleep, when you relax, or when you are bored. These symptoms are all normal following such a traumatic event. You are not going crazy. Would you be comfortable sharing some examples of these experiences that you've been having?"

He swallowed. "I have...dreams. And sometimes I remember things, or think I'm back there. When I woke up here, I thought-I thought I was with Hydra. I thought Steve wasn't real."

Kate nodded. "Thank you for sharing that with me. And that's completely normal." She wrote something down on her clipboard. "I'm just making a note of the symptoms you're experiencing." She looked up again. "Tell me, when you woke up and thought you were with Hydra, what did you do? Was it just momentary panic or did you completely act as if you were back there?"

He frowned. "I thought I was back there. I saw people and doctors but I couldn't recognize them. I couldn't hear what they were saying. I-" he swallowed. "I hit Steve and tried to get away, but I couldn't."

She nodded, writing as he spoke. "Okay, so you actually dissociated, which means you disconnected from reality, is that right?"

He nodded.

"And was this the only time that it happened?"

He shook his head. 

"Alright, that's all helpful to know. Now, a second set of symptoms concern arousal. As might be expected, when reminded of the event, you are likely to experience very strong emotions. Along with these feelings are physical reactions. Indicators of arousal symptoms include problems falling or staying asleep, irritability or outbursts of anger, difficulty concentrating, startle reactions like jumping at noises or if someone walks up behind you, always feeling on guard or looking over your shoulder even when there is no reason to. Which of these do you experience?"

He thought. "All of them," he said. "I'm always assessing for threats. I can't-I can't relax. Everything makes me...And if someone tries to touch me-I flinch."

She scribbled more on the clipboard. "Okay. The third cluster of symptoms is avoidance of reminders of the event. A natural reaction to intrusive reminders and strong emotional reactions is the urge to push these thoughts and feelings away. You might avoid places or people who remind you of your time with Hydra. Some people avoid watching certain television programs or turn off the TV. Some people avoid reading the newspaper or watching the news. You might avoid thinking about that time and letting yourself feel your feelings about it. There might be certain sights, sounds, or smells that you find yourself avoiding or escaping from because they remind you of it. Sometimes people have trouble remembering all or part of the traumatic event, and we know that Hydra already tried to erase your memories. Sometimes people feel numb and cut-off from the world around them. This feeling of detachment or numbness is another form of avoidance. Sometimes it is described as feeling as though you are watching life from behind glass. Is there any things or thoughts that you avoid or run away from?"

He frowned, trying to think. "I don't know. I guess I, avoid thinking about it? And I don't like the med bay. But I can't avoid it. And I don't like-I don't look at the arm. I don't know."

"That's okay. I know it's only been three weeks today from what happened in DC, when you escaped. You may not have encountered a lot of triggers, especially since you've been exclusively in the tower for half of that. We can come back to that question later."

He nodded.

"Okay, next question. Have you felt numb or shut off from your emotions at all?"

He nodded. "A lot. I just feel...empty."

"That's pretty normal and understandable. Alright, have you found yourself feeling disconnected from other people?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. They keep-not leaving me alone. And it's-good? But I can't-I don't know how-" He broke off, unable to articulate what he wanted to say.

"You don't know how to interact with them?" Kate guessed. "It's hard to communicate?"

He nodded, exhaling. She smiled warmly. "I understand. You're doing really well communicating with me, though. Alright, so we've gone through the symptoms and assessed where you are. Now, many people are exposed to traumatic events. In the time immediately following a trauma, most people will have the symptoms of PTSD that we just talked about. However, over time, for many people, those symptoms naturally decrease, and they are not diagnosed with PTSD. In other words, they naturally recover from the traumatic event. There are some people who do not recover and are later diagnosed with PTSD. Based on that, it is helpful to think of PTSD as a problem in recovery. Something got in the way of you having that natural process of recovery, and our work together is to determine what got in the way and to change it so that you can recover from what happened. I know your situation is extreme, and your recovery only beginning, but the same theory applies. We will be working to get you ‘unstuck’” so you can actually have a healthy recovery from the start. There are some different reasons why you may have trouble recovering.

"First, there may be an automatic component during those years that you should consider as you evaluate how you responded during your time with Hydra. When people face serious, possibly life-threatening events, they are likely to experience a very strong physical reaction called the fight-flight reaction. More recently we have learned that there is a third possibility, the freeze response. In the fight-flight reaction, your body is trying to get you ready to fight or flee danger. The goal here is to get all the blood and oxygen out to your hands, feet, and big muscle groups like your thighs and forearms so that you can run or fight. In order to do that quickly, the blood leaves your stomach or your head. You might feel like you have been kicked in the gut or are going to faint. Your body stops fighting off diseases and digesting food. You are not thinking about your philosophy of life and may have trouble thinking at all. The same thing happens with the freeze response, but in this case your body is trying to reduce both physical and emotional pain. This is especially likely given the fact that you were not able to escape or fight back, so fight or flight was not an option. You may have stopped feeling pain or had the sense that the event was happening to someone else as if it were a movie. You might have been completely shut down emotionally or even had shifts in perception like you are out of your body or that time has slowed down. If you have been thinking now of other things that you could have done then, you might need to consider what your state of mind was during that time. Did you have all possible options available to you? Did you know then what you know now, especially with regards to memory? Do you have different skills now than you did then?

"Second, the fight-flight response that you were experiencing during the traumatic event can get quickly paired with cues, or things in the environment, that didn’t have any particular meaning before. Then later, when you encounter those cues, you are likely to have another fight-flight reaction. Your nervous system senses the cue, which could be a sight, a sound, smell, or even a time, and then your body reacts as though you are in danger again. These reactions will fade over time if you don’t avoid those cues. However, if you avoid reminder cues, your body won’t learn that these are not, in fact, good danger cues. They don’t tell you very accurately whether you are actually in danger so you may have false alarms going off frequently. After a while you won’t trust your own senses or judgment about what is and isn’t dangerous, and too many situations seem dangerous that are not. You may start to have thoughts about the dangerousness of the world, particular places, or situations that are based on your reactions rather than the actual realistic danger of those situations. This leads us to examine how your thoughts may affect your reactions. Besides thoughts about dangerousness, many different types of beliefs about ourselves and the world can be affected by traumatic events. 

"As you were growing up you learned about the world and organized it into categories or beliefs. For example, when you were small, you learned that a thing with a back, seat and four legs is a chair. In the beginning you just called all of them 'chair'. You may have even called a couch a chair or a stool a chair because they had a back, seat, and four legs. Later, as you got older, through experience, you learned more complex categories, so you may have learned dining room chair, rocking chair, recliner or folding chair. We develop many categories of ideas and beliefs about others, the world, and ourselves, as well as for objects.

"One common belief that many people get while growing up is that 'good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people.' This is called the 'just world belief.' You may have learned this through your religion, your parents, your teachers, or you may have picked it up as a way to make the world seem safer and more predictable. It makes more sense when you are young. For example, parents wouldn’t want to say, ‘If you do something you’re not supposed to, you may or may not get in trouble.’ However, as we grow up, we realize that the world is more complex than that, just like how we learn that there are all different types of chairs. If you have ever had things go bad and you said 'Why me?,' then you have a just world belief.

"When an unexpected event occurs that doesn't fit your beliefs, there are different ways that you may try to make it fit. One way that you may have tried to make the event and your beliefs fit is by changing your memories or interpretation of the event to fit with your pre-existing beliefs. Examples of changing your interpretations/memories of the event are to blame yourself for not preventing the event (or protecting loved ones), to have trouble accepting that the event happened, to 'forget' that it happened, or to forget the most horrifying parts. Changing the event may seem easier than changing your entire set of beliefs about the world, how people behave, or your beliefs about your safety.

"It is possible that instead of changing the event, you may change your beliefs to accept what happened. This is one of our goals for therapy. Unfortunately, some people go overboard and change their beliefs too much, which may result in a reluctance to become intimate or develop trust, and increased fear. Examples that reflect an extreme change in beliefs include: thinking that no one can be trusted or that the world is completely dangerous.

"For some people who have had previous negative experiences in their life, traumatic events can seem to reinforce or confirm these previously held beliefs. For example, prior to having experienced a trauma you might have believed that others can’t be trusted or that the world is generally unsafe. The traumatic event comes along and seems to confirm those beliefs. Or, maybe you were told that everything was your fault growing up, so when a bad thing happens, it seems to confirm that once again, you are at fault.

"Our goals for therapy are: 1) to help you accept the reality of the event, 2) to feel your emotions about it and 3) to help you develop balanced and realistic beliefs about the event, yourself, and others. You good with that?"

He nodded.

“Okay, so there are two kinds of emotions that follow traumatic events. The first type is the feelings that follow naturally from the event and that would be universal: fear when in real danger, anger when being intentionally harmed, joy or happiness with positive events, or sadness with losses. These natural emotions have a natural course. They will not continue on forever unless there is something that you do to feed them. It is important to feel these emotions that you may not have allowed yourself to experience about this time, and let them run their natural course.

"The second type of emotions, manufactured feelings, result not directly in response to the event, but based on how you interpret the event. If you have thoughts such as ‘I should have been able to resist’ or ‘I was responsible for what Hydra made me do,' then you will be feeling angry at yourself or shame. These emotions are not based on the facts of the event, but on your interpretations. The more that you continue to think about it in these ways, the more and more of the manufactured feelings you are going to have. The upside of the fact that you are producing these feelings is that, if you change your thoughts and interpretations, you will change your feelings. Think of your emotions as a fire in a fireplace. The fire has energy to it. However, it will burn out if it is not continually fed. The self-blame or guilty thoughts can continue to feed the emotional fire indefinitely. Take away the fuel of your thoughts, and the fire burns out quickly. In order for you to recover from your trauma, we will be working together for you to express and accept your natural emotions and to adjust the manufactured feelings.

“Now, in order for me to have a clearer picture of what we will be working on first, we usually focus on the most traumatic event. However, given the nature of your trauma you have more what's called Complex Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. Complex Posttraumatic Stress Disorder is the result of multiple traumatic events occurring over a period of time, often referred to as "complex trauma." In addition to the symptoms we discussed, this includes severe and pervasive problems in affect regulation, or emotional regulation, persistent beliefs about oneself as diminished, defeated or worthless, accompanied by deep and pervasive feelings of shame, guilt or failure related to the stressor, and persistent difficulties in sustaining relationships and in feeling close to others. Therefore, it's hard to pinpoint one most traumatic event when it's basically one long traumatic event over seventy years. You've already established a safe environment here at the tower, which is the first step in treating C-PTSD. So we're going to proceed with CPT, but with a focus on integrating and consolidating all these traumatic memories and dealing with the overall feelings from that time. We can work on specific more prominent memories and trauma from that time as we go, starting with the ones that you think about and have flashbacks about the most. Does that sound okay?"

He nodded.

"Good. So, one goal of therapy will be to help you recognize and modify what you are saying to yourself-in other words, your thoughts and interpretations about those years, which may have become automatic. These distorted beliefs may become so automatic that you aren't even aware that you have them. Even though you may not be aware of what you are saying to yourself, your beliefs and self-statements affect your mood and your behavior. Often, people aren't aware that they are having thoughts about whatever they are experiencing. For example, on the way here today, you were probably wondering what this therapy would be like or what I would be asking you to talk about. Do you remember what you were thinking about before the session?"

He nodded. "I was worried."

"About what?"

"That the last psychologist was Hydra and turned me into the soldier again."

She grimaced slightly. "Stark briefed me about that. I'm very impressed that you came today, and I promise that you're safe here. It also mentioned that you attempted to die by suicide the night after. That's something I need to know about as we go, if you feel that way again. Can you agree to tell me, or if not me then someone else, if that happens?"

He nodded. 

"That's really good. Okay, when coming here you had the thought that I might be another Hydra agent, and that gave you anxiety. But you're here, so let me ask, what did you tell yourself to get here? What were those thoughts?" 

"That I promised to get help. That I had to for Steve."

"Good. See how the thoughts that got you here are different than the first ones that you said? The thoughts that got you here move you forward while the other thoughts can hold you back and keep you stuck and so, we call those stuck points. In this therapy, we want to look at your stuck points and see how they are keeping you stuck in your recovery from your traumas. I will be helping you to identify what your automatic thoughts are and how they influence what you feel. I will also teach you ways to challenge and change what you are saying to yourself and what you believe about yourself and the trauma. Some of your beliefs about it will be more balanced than others. You remember that we discussed at the beginning of this session about how some people get stuck in their recovery process. We will be focusing on changing the beliefs that are interfering with your recovery or keeping you stuck. Again, we call these problematic beliefs ‘stuck points.’"

She withdrew a sheet of paper from the clipboard, setting it on the coffee table. It had lines down the center and was entitled "Stuck Point Log." She pulled out another couple sheets and a folder, setting them down next to it. These read:

** Stuck Point Help Sheet **

** What is a stuck point?   **

Stuck points are thoughts that you have that keep you stuck from recovering. 

  * These thoughts may not be 100% accurate.
  * Stuck points may be: 
    * Thoughts about your understanding of why the trauma happened
    * Thoughts about yourself, others, and the world that have changed dramatically as a result of the trauma.
  * Stuck points are concise statements (must be longer than one word – “trust” is not a stuck point).
  * Stuck points can often be formatted in an “if…, then…” structure. For example, “If I let others get close, then I will get hurt.”
  * Stuck points often use extreme language, such as “never”, “always.”



** What is NOT a stuck point? **

  * **Behaviors:**



For example, “I fight with my daughter all the time” is not a stuck point, because it is describing a behavior. Instead consider what thoughts you have when you are fighting with your daughter. 

  * **Feelings:**



For example, “I am nervous whenever I go on a date” is not a stuck point, because it is describing an emotion. Instead consider what you are telling yourself that is making you feel nervous.

  * **Facts:**



For example, “I witnessed people die” is not a stuck point, because this is something that actually happened. Instead consider what thoughts you had as this happened and what you think about it now. 

  * **Questions:**



For example, “What will happen to me?” is not a stuck point, because it is a question. Instead consider what answer to your question is at the back of your mind, such as “I will not have a future.”

  * **Moral statements:**



For example, “The military should take care of soldiers” is not a stuck point, because it reflects an ideal standard of behavior. Instead consider how this statement pertains to you specifically, such as “The military failed me” or “I can’t trust the government.”

** Examples of Stuck Points  **

  1. If I had been a better person, the trauma wouldn’t have happened
  2. Other people were hurt because of what I did or didn’t do.
  3. Because I did not tell anyone, I am to blame for the trauma.
  4. Because I did not fight hard enough, the trauma is my fault.
  5. I should have known I would get hurt.
  6. It is my fault the trauma happened.
  7. If I had been paying attention, the trauma wouldn’t have happened.
  8. If I hadn’t been drinking, it would not have happened.
  9. I don't deserve to have a life because of the trauma.
  10. If I let other people get close to me, I'll get hurt again.
  11. Expressing any emotion means I will lose control of myself.
  12. I must be on guard at all times.
  13. Nowhere is safe.
  14. I should be able to protect others.
  15. I must control everything that happens to me.
  16. Mistakes are intolerable and cause serious harm.
  17. No one can understand me.
  18. If I let myself think about what has happened, I will never get it out of my mind.
  19. I must respond to all threats immediately.
  20. I can never really be a good, moral person again because of the things that I have done.
  21. Other people should not be trusted.
  22. Other people should not trust me.
  23. I don’t deserve a happy life because of the trauma.
  24. I have no control over my future.
  25. People who say they want to help you cannot be trusted.
  26. People in authority always abuse their power.
  27. I am damaged forever because of the trauma.
  28. I am bad because of the trauma.
  29. I am unlovable because of the trauma.
  30. I am worthless because I couldn’t control what happened.
  31. I deserve to have bad things happen to me.



"This is a sheet on Stuck Points and Stuck Points Log. We will keep a Stuck Point Log in your folder so as we identify problematic ideas we can write them down. Then when we move to different worksheets you will have this list to draw on. Does that sound good?"

He nodded.

"Okay. I cannot emphasize enough how important it is that you not avoid, which is probably what you usually have done to try to cope since Hydra. This will be your biggest (and probably scariest) hurdle. I cannot help you feel your feelings, or challenge your thoughts if you don't come to therapy or if you avoid completing your practice assignments. If you find yourself wanting to avoid, remind yourself that you are struggling with the event because you have avoided dealing with it head-on. There are 168 hours in a week. We cannot expect you to change your symptoms and the way you have been coping in one or two hours a week if you are continuing to practice your old ways of thinking the other 166 hours a week. It will be important for you to take what you are learning and apply it to your everyday life. Your therapy needs to be where your life is, not just in this little room. There will be lots of practice assignments that you will need to do outside, so I need you to be committed. The hardest sessions are going to be roughly around four and five, where we discuss a specific worst trauma in detail, so be prepared for that." She placed a form on the table along with a pen. "This is a consent form. I need to know that you agree to this therapy and will participate willingly. If so, you can sign it, but it's up to you." She sat back, expression calm.

Bucky hesitated before picking up the pen and scrawling his name along the line in shaky cursive.  _James Buchanan Barnes._ There. He had made a choice. He exhaled, nodding at Kate. She smiled, signing the form as well and dating it before returning it to her folder.

"Great. For the next session, I want you to start working on how you think about and explain your trauma. I also want you to pay attention to how the traumatic event impacted on your views of yourself, other people, and the world. I want you to write at least one page on 1) why you think this happened to you, and 2) how has it changed or strengthened your views about yourself, other people and the world in general. Also, consider the effects it has had on your beliefs about yourself, other people, and the world specifically in these areas: safety, trust, power/control, esteem, and intimacy." She pulled out a sheet with the instructions on it. "You're writing about _why_ the trauma occurred, not the specifics of what happened. Bring the impact statement with you to the next session. In order for this assignment to be most helpful to you, I strongly suggest you try to start this assignment soon, so that you have enough time to write thoughtfully. Pick a time and place where you have as much privacy as possible, so you can feel any feelings that arise as you complete the assignment. Also, please read over the handout I have given you on stuck points so that you understand the concept we are talking about.

"Do you have any questions? I know this was a lot of information, and I promise this is the only time I will talk this much.” She smiled wryly.

He shook his head. 

"Okay. Let me know if you do." She gathered up the papers, putting them in the folder and setting it down in front of him. "This is for you. We'll add more worksheets as we go and use the practice assignments each session, so make sure you keep bringing this. Other than that, I'll see you next session. Thank you for coming in today; I look forward to working with you."

He nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly. He picked up the folder, getting to his feet. Kate moved to open the door, ushering him out with a smile. Steve, Sam, and Tony met him once he was out of the line of sight of the door, looking curious.

"Okay?" Steve asked.

Bucky nodded. "Okay."

"You think we're safe to not be here next time?" Sam asked.

Bucky hesitated. He wanted to trust Kate, but his instincts told him to always be prepared. "Yes. But keep the panic button."

Sam nodded. "Sounds good."

They dropped him off at he and Steve's floor, Sam seeming to realize he needed time alone. Steve sat down on the couch to read The Two Towers, having finished the first book the day before. Bucky folded up a blanket and laid his head in Steve's lap, sinking into a semi-conscious doze until dinner. Sam came over and they made tacos, Bucky's cooking skills ever-expanding. When he fell into bed with Steve that night he lay awake for some time, mind whirling with everything Kate had said during the session. Sometime in the early morning he got up, padding into the kitchen and taking out the impact statement assignment. He found a sheet of paper and a pencil and began to write, motions shaky and unpracticed. He stayed there, scribbling and scratching out words furiously until the morning, where he tucked the sheet in the folder and climbed back into bed, falling asleep instantly. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay therapy! Psych student here. Literally using this to study for my exam that includes understanding PTSD and Cognitive Processing Therapy as one of the most effective treatments. Much of the therapist's dialogue is taken directly from a manual for CPT for veterans that outlines each session, and the stuck points sheet is the real deal. Who says fic can't be both entertaining and educational? Anyway, CPT is incredible for PTSD and cognitive behavioral therapy (an umbrella of CPT) works wonders for depression, anxiety, etc. If anyone is suffering from any of these illnesses help is out there!


	21. Chapter 21

_10:00 a.m._

"I'm standing here today outside Arlington National Cemetery, where hundreds of people have gathered by the grave of Sergeant Barnes. Today marks one month since the events of DC, and there have been memorials and tributes all day not only for the Shield agents lost in the line of duty but for fallen war hero and Hydra captive Bucky Barnes, who was revealed to be alive just after the events of DC. There's been a national outcry over the so-called "Winter Soldier files," which detailed Hydra's torture and brainwashing of Sergeant Barnes into the assassin known as the Winter Soldier. As you can see there's a huge crowd here today who came out for a memorial in support of Sergeant Barnes. People are leaving flowers and supportive messages at his gravestone, and it's really quite the sight. I'm here today with Caroline Jones, who helped to organize this event. Caroline, can you tell us a little about the purpose of this memorial and what inspired you to start it?"

"Hi, yes. Well, Bucky Barnes has always been one of my heroes from childhood. Realizing that he was alive and then reading about what had happened to him was almost unconceivable. I mean, he gave his life trying to take Hydra down. So I started thinking that, well, he's the longest serving prisoner of war in history, and I think he deserves to be recognized for that. This gravestone represents the fact that he gave his life fighting Hydra, even if it wasn't literal. He deserves the hero's welcome that Captain America got when he woke up, especially on this anniversary of the events in DC. I started talking about the idea, and it caught on, and here we are. The people who've gathered here-we want everyone to know that he was just as much a victim as any of the Shield agents that were lost that day in DC, and that he is not to blame for his actions. That he's a hero. Sergeant Barnes, if you're watching this, we love you and we support you. Thank you."

Bucky turned off the tv, unnamable emotion choking him. He curled up in the corner of the couch, resting his forehead on his knees. 

_2:00 p.m._

Bucky took a deep breath before approaching the opened office door. Kate looked up from behind her desk as he came through the doorway, rapping his fist on the door. She smiled, getting up.

"Bucky, hi. Come on in." She gestured to the couch, moving to sit in the armchair as he closed the door. He sat down as well, setting the folder on the coffee table. "So, how was your week?" she questioned.

He shrugged. "Okay." It had been pretty calm, filled with more books (Harry Potter) from Imani and Maria along with their visits, cuddling with Steve, and starting to exercise again to keep him in shape. Bruce had said it was necessary that he keep his upper body strength to support the metal arm, and prescribed specific exercises he could do. He had avoided any type of sparring or fighting exercises, focusing on strength and core workouts. The physical activity had helped improve his mood a bit, and he and Steve were getting better at communicating. However, the nightmares were back in full strength, and he was jumpy and anxious all the time. Steve could never touch him first, but he could usually tolerate touch if he initiated it. This week, though, he had vacillated between being extremely clingy and detesting all touch, leaving Steve confused. His mood swung up and down rapidly, the lack of sleep increasing his irritability. He felt like he was on a roller-coaster with no way to get off, but at least nothing seriously bad had happened this week for the first time since he left Hydra. It was the small things.

Kate smiled. "Okay is good for now. How did the impact statement go?"

He pulled out the scribbled sheet from the folder. "Okay. Hard."

She nodded. "Yeah, it is hard. Okay, I'm going to ask you to read it to me, and then we can identify some stuck points and things to address during therapy. Whenever you're ready."

He nodded, taking a deep breath before beginning to read.

"Why did this happen? I think it happened because Hydra is a bunch of Nazi psychopaths who want to take over the world. The reason they picked me is just because I was the only one to survive Zola's fucked-up experiments during the war. And it was just some horrible luck that they found me after I fell. But the reason all this happened was because I wasn't strong enough. I tried and tried, but they broke me, and eventually I stopped fighting back. And then they took everything from me, my memories, my will, my morals; they carved me out and left the soldier in its place. And I killed dozens of innocent people without blinking, without remorse. They made me into a monster, although the truth is I was already becoming one long before Hydra. The war built the gun, Zola turned off the safety, and Hydra pulled the trigger. The effects on my beliefs?:

"Safety: I don't think I'm safe, in both ways. I'm not safe from others, and others aren't safe from me. No matter what I do I'll always be hurt or hurt someone. I can't even be touched without flinching because of what they did to me. I'm terrified that Hydra will find me again. Nowhere is safe. They'll find me and make me hurt people again. And even if they don't, I still hurt people. I'm dangerous, and other people should be scared of me. The world is an unsafe place, filled with horrible people and death. Only death. It's inescapable. I feel like I live in a constant state of terror. Everything terrifies me. People, myself. I'm always expecting to be punished, or have my memories wiped. Everyone keeps telling me that I'm safe but I can't make myself believe it. I say no or disagree with someone and I tense up, expecting to be hit. Every time someone moves I'm always watching, in case they hurt me. And I'm terrified that I'm going to hurt someone again. When the psychologist triggered me, I hurt people. I hurt Steve and Sam. I can't do that again. I'd rather die than hurt anyone again.

"Trust: The only person I trust is Steve. But anyone else is always a threat. Everyone has an agenda. I can't trust anyone, even myself. Especially myself. I can't trust my own mind because of Hydra, because someone can say a few words and be able to control me. Even without that, I'm dangerous. I get nightmares and flashbacks and lash out, hurting people. I can't trust myself not to go too far one time and accidentally kill someone. I think that Steve's the only person that won't ever hurt me or break my trust, but I already hurt him because of Hydra. Even the people who say they're trying to help me broke my trust. Maria and Imani told Steve where I was when i didn't want them to. I woke up in a bed with needles in me and they gave me drugs without asking if I wanted them. I think everyone lies, and I can't trust anyone. Hydra ripped away my trust in everything. I can't trust that people are good, or that they're not going to hurt me. I can't trust that my own fucking body isn't going to do something I don't want, or that my mind won't just be taken away.

"Power or control: I don't feel like I have any control. Hydra took away my control over my body and my mind, took away everything. I woke up with this fucking metal arm attached to me, and I couldn't get it out. They pumped me full of drugs and I still have to take some because of the excruciating pain in said fucking arm. They made me so completely dependent on them that I didn't even know what food was when I first was free, or how to brush my teeth. I was nothing but a puppet for them to use, a gun to point in the right direction. I still don't feel like I have control. Things keep happening and I can't do anything about them, and other people make choices for me. I don't know how to be a person. And the little control I do have can be taken away by ten words, ten fucking words and I become nothing but a machine. Hydra even took away my choice to die, but when I found a way around that that was taken away too, by the people who claimed to want to help me. I feel like I'm one of Stark's robots, and everyone is just telling me what to do and trying to fix me. I don't feel like I have any control over my body or my mind or my life or anything. Sometimes I feel so helpless I can barely move, because what's the point?"

He was getting angry, voice harsh and words rushed. He took a deep breath, composing himself before continuing.

"Esteem: Well I definitely don't feel good about myself. I killed dozens of people, tried to kill Steve. I think that I'm a bad person, and don't deserve kindness or help because of the things I've done. I think the old Bucky Barnes would be horrified if he saw what I've become, what I've done. I'm nothing but a killer. I have no other purpose, nothing to offer anyone. My body is nothing but a weapon, and I hate it. I think I should be locked up or put down for what I've done, and that the world should hate me. I don't even really know if I'm a person. I don't think I can even have esteem. I have no sense of self.

"Intimacy: I don't think I can ever really be intimate again, physically or emotionally. I'm not sure I even know what that would mean. Even if someone wasn't horrified by what Hydra did to my body, I can't stand to be touched most of the time. On the other hand, sometimes I feel like I'll die if I can't be close to someone, and I'll have to touch Steve just to make it go away. But that's still only my hand, or my arm, or a hug, and only I can initiate it. I can never go farther than that, and there's certain parts of me I can't ever have touched, like my head. And in terms of emotional intimacy, I don't think I can ever have that again. I barely even know what emotions are, and the only ones I really ever feel are anger and fear. I don't think anyone would want to be close to me because of all the horrors in my head, and the fact that I'm so fucked up. I'm barely even a person. And I know Steve and I are trying to rebuild our relationship, but sometimes I wonder if it's a lost cause. I'll never be able to give him what I used to. The most I can do is a kiss and casual contact, but anything else and I panic. I can't even take off my shirt around him because I don't want him to see my shoulder or the arm. And I wonder if he's better off without me. Because I know Steve, and he'll never give up. But I'm just a burden on him, and he'll never be happy because I'm never going to be okay. He'll pretend it's fine but I know better. He deserves better than me.

In conclusion, my beliefs about myself, others, and the world are pretty goddamned fucked up because of Hydra. Hydra completely destroyed me, and I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to pick up the pieces. I think Bucky Barnes died in a ravine in 1944, and all I am is the scraps of a person mixed with what Hydra created. A malfunctioning weapon."

He finished, lowering the paper and looking down as he breathed. He felt numb, disconnected from the words and drained of all emotion. 

"Thank you for sharing that. That was a lot of feelings," Kate said gently. "It's understandable to have all of these after what you've been through. What we want to focus on from this is some alternative ways of interpreting things so we can move on from them. It sounds like you're having a lot of negative beliefs about yourself from this trauma. What I'm hearing overall is that this has really impacted how you see not just yourself but the world and others. Let's start with some stuck points. Do you have your sheet?"

He nodded without looking up, retrieving the blank page from the folder. Kate set a pencil down next to it.

"Okay, let's start with the first one I heard; why you think this trauma happened. You said 'the reason all this happened is because I wasn't strong enough.' I want you to write that down on the sheet." Bucky complied, writing it on the first line. "Okay, I walk through this one with you. What is the evidence for this stuck point?"

"I gave in to Hydra."

"Okay, but is that really true? First of all, giving into extreme torture is nothing to be ashamed of. But you didn't. Why would Hydra wipe your memories if you gave in?"

He blinked. "Because...it made me more compliant. A better soldier."

"So you admit that you weren't compliant before. You didn't give in."

"But-" He opened and closed his mouth. "But-I did."

"Let's look at the evidence against this stuck point. They had to wipe your memories in order to make you do what they wanted. Even then, you still tried to fight them whenever you regained any semblance of self. If you hadn't been fighting back, there would be no need for the memory wipes or torture. Furthermore, you were a prisoner and subject to extreme torture, brainwashing, and even outright mind control. In the end, you had no choice."

He frowned. "I...maybe."

"It's okay. You don't have to truly believe it right now, this is just an example of what we're going to be doing here. Just make yourself think about it. In what way is your stuck point not including all of the information?"

"I guess-it's leaving out the memory wipes and mind control. I couldn't do anything about those," he said dubiously.

"That's good. Does your stuck point include all or none terms? You either gave in or you didn't? _Everything_ was because you weren't strong enough?"

He nodded.

"Yes. Good. You could have given in for some things, and resisted for others. And even if it was true for some small part, it doesn't account for a whole larger part. Also, is this stuck point based on fact, or on habit? Have you simply said this to yourself so many times that you believed it?"

He nodded. "Habit," he said grudgingly.

"Finally, in what ways is your stuck point based on feelings rather than facts?"

"I guess...I feel guilty."

"And that's a normal human reaction to something terrible happening. We want to believe in retrospect that we could have stopped it. But that's trying to rewrite the events to fit your beliefs. Do you see that?"

He nodded hesitantly. "I think so."

"We need to look at this objectively. So what's an alternative thought you could have instead of this?"

"That-maybe not _everything_ was my fault?"

She nodded. "That's a good start. And how does that new thought make you feel?"

"I don't know. Less-horrible? But-but I can't quite believe it," he said quietly.

"That's okay. You don't have to believe it 100% right now. But this is what we're going to do. We're going to go through these stuck points and evaluate each one to see if there's another way we can look at it. Okay?"

He nodded.

"Okay, let's find some other stuck points. The main one I heard first was that nowhere is safe. Can you write that down?"

He wrote "nowhere is safe" on the stuck points list.

"Okay, now this is an example of going overboard on changing beliefs as a result of memories. I understand that after everything you would have a hard time feeling safe. This is one we may have to come back to as we progress. Sound good?"

He nodded.

"Okay, another one we could write down would be 'I am not safe.' We'll use that with two dimensions, you being safe from others and others being safe from you. From trust, I heard that 'other people should not be trusted,' and 'other people should not trust me.'" She waited for him to write them down. "Then from control, 'I have no control over my body,' 'I have no control over my mind,' and 'I have no control over my life.' There's a lot of stuck points with control here. I also heard you say 'I am a bad person because of what I've done,' and 'I don't deserve kindness or help.' Definitely write those down." He wrote quickly as she paused. "Pretty much every sentence from esteem you could write down. From intimacy, I heard the idea that 'I'm never going to be okay,' and 'Steve deserves better than me.' Finally, there was one that seemed to keep coming up that I think is really important. That is 'I am not a person,' or 'I am a weapon.' There's a few other specific ones I think we could tease out, but let's leave it there for now. We'll add some more as we go. That make sense?"

He nodded.

"It was really great that you were able to write this and read it to me. This shows how important it is to confront some of those thoughts, because there's some very negative, distressing things you're feeling right now as a result of those. It's understandable to be devastated by what you went through and to feel these things, but we want to make sure you're processing this the right way and not creating warped beliefs. I'm very happy that you were able to express all these things to me."

He nodded, glancing up briefly and meeting her eyes.

“So I heard you say that you barely even know what emotions are, and the only ones you feel are anger and fear. That's going to segue nicely into our next topic for today." She pulled out a diagram with six large arrows all facing outwards from a central circle. The one pointing down read "happy." Pointing right was "anger," to the left "scared." "Sad" was pointing straight up, with "ashamed" at a diagonal between it and "anger," and "disgusted" between it and "scared." Small letters at the base and tip of the arrows labeled different intensities of the emotion, such as "a little down" at the base of "sad" and "in despair" at the tip. Kate continued. "We are going to work on identifying what different feelings are and we will be looking at the connection between your thoughts and feelings. Let's start with some basic emotions- mad, sad, glad, and scared. These four basic emotions can be combined to create other emotions like jealousy (mad + scared) or can vary in intensity (for example, irritated, angry, or enraged). Then there's manufactured emotions that are based on our thoughts: guilt and shame. First, can you give me an example of something that makes you mad?"

"Thinking about Hydra."

"What specifically about them?"

"What they did to me. How they stole my life. What they made me do."

"Okay. That's good. What about, when do you feel sad?"

He frowned. "I don't know."

"Maybe sad isn't the right word for what you're feeling right now. What about hopeless? Or empty?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"And when do you feel those?"

"I don't know-always? They never go away."

"Okay. We'll come back to that. How about happy?"

_Never,_ he thought. But that wasn't quite right. "When I'm with Steve," he said. "I feel-okay."

She narrowed her eyes. "Okay, or happy? Okay is just feeling okay. Happy is full of joy and contentment."

He looked down. "Okay," he said quietly.

"Right there, what are you feeling?" she asked. "I asked you if you were feeling okay or happy and you had a reaction. What was it?"

He blinked. "I guess-ashamed?"

"Why were you ashamed?"

"Because-because I don't feel happy when I'm with Steve."

"So your thought was, 'I should feel happy when I'm with Steve?'"

He nodded. 

"And why should you feel happy when you're with Steve?"

"Because...I should. I love him."

"Just because you love someone doesn't mean you always have to be happy when you're with them. You don't love him any less, do you?"

"No."

"Then why do you have to be happy?"

"Because-because-I don't know. I'm supposed to."

"You're recovering from a trauma. You're not going to be feeling happy all the time or even at all right now. That's okay. You said Steve makes you feel okay, right?"

He nodded. 

"Then maybe that's your happy right now. Do you see how your thought made you feel ashamed?"

He nodded. 

"Okay, so we want to change that thought. How about, 'I don't have to feel happy right now.' How does that make you feel?"

"Better. Okay."

"That's good. That's what we want to keep building on. Now, what frightens you?"

"Everything."

"Give me an example of something that makes you feel scared."

"Someone touching me."

"Okay. How do you feel physically when you are feeling scared?"

He spoke haltingly. "My heart-speeds up. I get this feeling in my stomach. I can't breathe. My mind goes blank. I freeze."

"And how do you feel physically when you are feeling angry?"

"It's like-this burning in my chest. A pressure. I'm tense."

"How are mad and scared different for you?”

"When I'm mad...I feel like I'm going to snap or lash out. I feel-focused. Intense. When I'm scared....I freeze. It feels like everything goes fuzzy. The world disappears. I don't know where I am. I can't think."

Kate nodded. "Okay. That sounds pretty normal, although we're going to come back to what you said about fear at some point because I think that's important and has to do with your trauma. Now let's talk about how interpretations of events and self-statements can affect feelings. Let's go back to the stuck point we had earlier about everything being because you weren't strong enough. Do you remember how it made you feel?"

He nodded. 

"Now that guilt and shame is manufactured emotions based on your thoughts. We came up with an alternative statement saying that not everything was your fault. Some other alternative thoughts could be, 'I didn't have a choice.' 'Everything was Hydra's fault.' 'I fought back.' 'I'm strong for getting through this.' Now, what would you feel if you said any of these?"

"Better. Okay."

"What about from the emotion handout? Can you pinpoint a specific emotion?"

"Maybe-between angry and happy?"

"That's good. Do you see how different self-statements elicit different emotional reactions?"

He nodded.

"Now, let's talk about the Impact Statement you wrote. There were a lot of negative self-statements in there. What feelings did you have as you wrote it?”

He studied the sheet. "Anger. Shame. Disgust."

"Why were you angry?"

"Because I realized how-how broken I am. I hate it."

"So your thought was, 'I hate myself for the effects of my trauma?"

"Yes."

"And your anger was directed toward yourself?"

"Yes. But also towards Hydra."

"Okay. Hydra's a good thing to be angry at. But I still don't understand, why are you angry at yourself?"

"Because I'm damaged. I can't do anything. I'm not even a person anymore."

"Even if we were to accept those statements as true, how are they your fault?"

"I-but-"

Kate leaned forward. "You were imprisoned, tortured, and brainwashed for seventy years. That caused you significant trauma and impacted your life. Everything you said is because of what Hydra did to you. How is that your fault?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I should be better."

"How should you be better?"

"I shouldn't be so-affected. I shouldn't freak out over little things. I should be able to let Steve touch me. I should be able to do things. Be a person."

"And why can't you do those things?"

"Because-because of what Hydra did. I can't get it out of my head."

"So it's Hydra's fault that you're still feeling the effects of years of trauma."

"Well-yes."

"So it's not your fault."

"I-but-yes? I don't know." He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"That's okay, this is something we're going to keep working on in therapy. I know it feels like I'm pushing you, but I'm just trying to get to the bottom of these thoughts. You see how the anger towards yourself came from this negative self-statement?"

He nodded. 

"So if we can change the self-statement, we can change how you feel. And then that affects your behavior. If you feel angry with yourself, you're going to act totally different than you would if you were only angry at Hydra. Does that make sense?"

He nodded again. 

She pulled out another worksheet with multiple copies. 

 

**A-B-C Worksheet**

**  
**

**ACTIVATING EVENT                                                                BELIEF/STUCK POINT                                                         CONSEQUENCE**

**A                                                                                               B                                                                                    C**

“Something happens”                                                                “I tell myself something”                                                         “I feel something”

 

 

 

 

 

  
Are my thoughts above in “B” _realistic_? ________________________________________________________________________ 

 

What can you tell yourself on such occasions in the future? ________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________

 

"These practice sheets will help you to see the connection between your thoughts and feelings following events. Anything that happens to you or you think about can be the event to look at. You may be more aware of your feelings than your thoughts at first. If that is the case, go ahead and fill out Column C first. Then go back and decide what the event was in Column A. Then try to recognize what you were saying to yourself (Column B). Try to fill out these sheets as soon after the events as possible. If you wait until the end of the day (or week) you are less likely to remember what you were saying to yourself. Also, the events you record don't have to be negative events. You also have thoughts and feelings about pleasant and neutral events. However, I want you to do at least one A-B-C sheet about the traumatic event. Let's do one together. What's an event you want to use for this? It can be from the last few days."

He chewed on his lip. "I couldn't touch Steve at all a couple days ago."

"Okay, write that down for the event. Now, how did that make you feel?"

"Terrible. Ashamed. Weak."

"Write those down in Column C. Now, what were you telling yourself? What were the thoughts you were having?"

"That I was a terrible partner. That he deserved better. That I'll never be okay. That I'm damaged."

"Write those down under 'B.'" Bucky complied. "Okay, now are those thoughts realistic?"

Bucky bit his lip. "Maybe?"

"How so?"

"I can't give Steve the relationship he deserves."

"And what would that be?"

"Someone who's actually functional, and can kiss him and talk with him and isn't a burden. Someone normal."

"Have you considered that that's not what he wants?"

"Yeah, but-he wants me because he still thinks I'm the old Bucky Barnes. And he's too selfless to give up on me. It doesn't matter what he truly needs."

"But how do you know what he truly needs?"

"I-I mean, it's just-he deserves-"

"But what does he  _need?_ What does he  _want?_ You of all people know the importance of respecting people's choices and wants."

"Yes, but-" He sighed. "I know."

"So when you can't touch him, does this mean you're a terrible partner if he's okay with that?"

"...No."

"And is the fact that you can't touch him your fault? Or is it because of Hydra?"

"Hydra," he said grudgingly.

"So is there something else you can tell yourself about this event in the future?"

"That-it's okay? It's not my fault?" He chewed his lip. "That Steve doesn't care?"

"Yes, that's great. Write those down. Something you could tell yourself would be, 'I am still recovering and I'm going to have issues with being touched sometimes, and that's okay.' Can you at least keep that in mind?"

He nodded.

"Okay, you've done a really good job today. For next week, please complete the ABC sheets to become aware of the connection between events, your thoughts, feelings, and behavior. Complete at least one sheet each day, and complete at least one sheet about the worst traumatic event. Remember to fill out the form as soon after an event as possible. Also, please use the Identifying Emotions handout to help you determine what emotions you are feeling. If you find more stuck points as you do the worksheets, feel free to add them to the stuck points log. Does that sound good?"

"Yes." He gathered up all the papers on the table, sliding them into the folder.

"Alright, then I will see you next week. Thank you for participating so fully; your impact statement was so rich and honest, and I'm glad you felt comfortable sharing it with me. I think you're making great progress on challenging some of these negative self-statements, which we're going to continue doing as we go."

He nodded. "Thank you."

She smiled. "Anytime. Good luck this week."

With a final nod he exited the office, feeling drained. When he got back to his and Steve's floor he collapsed on the couch, Steve coming over to sit by him and Koshka seizing her place on his lap. Steve watched him with assessing eyes as he stroked Koshka tiredly, his mind numb after the intensity of the session.

"How did it go?" Steve asked.

He shrugged. "Okay. Yours?"

Steve nodded. "Okay."

"I had to read my impact statement," Bucky said. He didn't even know why he felt the need to tell Steve this, but he did.

"Impact statement?"

"The effects of Hydra on my life, whatever. You didn't have to do that?"

Steve shook his head. "I'm doing a little bit different therapy. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Apparently my biggest problem isn't PTSD, it's depression." He smiled wryly.

Bucky nodded. He had learned what depression was from Sam. "That sucks," he said, at a loss for how to respond.

Steve chuckled. "So, impact statement?"

"Yeah. Basically, Hydra fucked me up." He paused. "Steve-you don't-what do you want?"

Steve looked confused. "What do you mean?"

He struggled to speak. "I mean-I can't-I can't do things. Sometimes I can't touch you, or talk, or be a person. I'm damaged. I can't give you a normal relationship. Do you-" he swallowed. "Do you still want me?"

Steve stared at him. "Of course I still want you, Buck. I don't care about any of that. You're everything to me."

Bucky searched his eyes for falsehoods, but found none. A breath he didn't know he was holding escaped, something like  _okayness_ filling his chest. He gave Steve a small smile. "Okay," he whispered. He reached out a hand, Steve scooting closer to take it. Steve's thumb traced circles on the back of his hand, watching him calmly.

"It's been four weeks since DC today," Bucky said softly.

Steve nodded. "Yeah. And look how far we've come."

"I hurt you," Bucky whispered, staring at their entwined hands.

"It wasn't your fault. And I hurt you too," Steve replied.

Bucky shook his head. "It's not the same. I tried to kill you. You didn't-you didn't fight back. Why?"

"Because-once I stopped the helicarriers," Steve shrugged, "there was no reason to. I never wanted to fight you. If there was a chance that I could get through to you..." Suddenly he squeezed Bucky's hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't know-I didn't know then what they did to you. For remembering me after the bridge."

Bucky looked up, wary. "What do you mean?"

Steve swallowed. "We found the bank-after you-after you were there. There was security footage. I only saw that much-I didn't watch the rest. But I know you remembered me. And then they wiped your memories again. And I'm so-I'm so sorry. You had to go through that because of me."

Bucky shook his head, the memory fresh. He felt horrified that Steve had seen him like that. "No. It wasn't-it wasn't your fault. I always-I kept remembering. After a few days, things would come back. And they'd put me under again. You just...started it. I knew you."

"Still," Steve said, "I'm sorry. I know now, why you fought like that on the helicarrier. And I'm glad you remembered, that I got through to you-but it hurt you. I'm sorry." 

Bucky blinked, taken aback by Steve's apology. He had been frantic to stop Steve's words because they hurt, because they weren't allowed, but after he had never blamed Steve. It had stopped him from killing him. He shook his head. "I would have killed you."

Steve cocked his head. "Why didn't you? You could have killed me ten times by the time I tried to get to you. Even when you shot me, none of them were lethal. And you never miss."

Bucky shrugged, uncomfortable. "I just-couldn't. I tried, but I couldn't," he said softly. "Everything felt wrong."

"Well I'm glad you didn't," Steve said.

So was Bucky. He had a thought: what if he had killed Steve? Steve had practically invited him to, had laid down and stopped fighting. Thrown away his shield. If Bucky had killed him he would never have forgiven himself. He could barely forgive himself for hurting him. He suddenly glared at Steve. "I could have killed you, and you didn't even fight back. That's the dumbest thing you've ever done, Steven Grant Rogers, and you've done a whole basket-load of stupid fucking things. I swear to God if you  _ever_ do anything like that again..."

Steve huffed out a sound between a laugh and a sob. Bucky turned serious.

"You gotta promise me, Steve-if Hydra somehow gets me again, you won't do that again. You can't let me kill you. Please. I can't-I can't do that. Don't make me do that."

Steve nodded. "I promise, Buck. I understand."

Bucky exhaled. "You're a stupid fucking punk," he muttered. "But I love you."

Steve smiled. "I love you too, jerk."

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: sexual assault (implied/referenced)
> 
> Also: twisted beliefs about sexual assault from Bucky. He grew up in an era (and we still have this today) when men would be shamed for being victims of sexual assault. There's also the fact that, like many survivors, the most common response to sexual assault is to freeze, and for long-time abuse victims (like Bucky) there's the added component of learned helplessness, as well as his conditioning to obey orders and torture. The views expressed by Bucky in this are not my own and are not healthy!! I repeat, not healthy!! But we will be tackling this in therapy so stay tuned for actual healthy views and coping.
> 
> https://www.rainn.org/ is a national sexual assault helpline and informative website for anyone who's interested. Stay safe, stay healthy, stay strong.

_4:00 a.m._

It was the Thursday morning before his third therapy session and he was sitting in the corner of a quiet diner, Steve across from him. After starting to go stir-crazy over the last few weeks, they had decided that he could go outside the tower as long as he attempted to remain undercover and was accompanied by Steve. This was his first time outside, and the early hour due to his nightmares was perfect for going unnoticed. They had picked a small 24-hour diner near the tower, not popular enough to garner large crowds of people, and were sitting in the back booth, Bucky having a clear line of sight to the door and all exits. The only other occupants were a couple of lone men in business suits who looked exhausted. Bucky shifted in his seat, eyes darting around watchfully from under the brim of his hat. He resisted the urge to tear it off, the constriction of his head making prickles of anxiety dance along his skin. He had been fine wearing it when he first left DC, so why did it bother him now?

Being outside for the first time in five weeks had been overwhelming, so many sights and sounds and smells assaulting his senses, but he was glad to be outside of the imposing walls of the tower for the first time in almost four weeks. He had begun to feel trapped. The air on his face reminded him that he was free, that no one was keeping him imprisoned. No one owned him. He took a deep breath, the smells of grease and coffee comforting compared to the clean, clinical air of the tower.

"You okay?" Steve asked softly.

He nodded, stuffing the gloved metal hand more deeply into his pocket as a waitress approached, looking tired and dazed. She mustered up a smile as she stopped next to their booth, sliding menus onto the table. 

"Hi, I'm Nicole and I'll be looking after you today. Can I get you started with something to drink?"

"Just coffees," Steve replied. Bucky attempted to look even more unobtrusive. Where had his covert surveillance skills gone?

The waitress nodded before pausing as she studied Steve and Bucky, brow furrowing. It only lasted a split second before she pasted on a smile again. "Alright, I'll be back in a minute." She turned and left, Bucky relaxing minutely.

Steve picked up the menu, perusing it. Bucky copied the motion, overwhelmed by all the choices. He looked up at Steve, silently asking for help. Steve smiled.

"I'll probably get the breakfast special. Eggs, bacon, sausage, and a stack of pancakes. Want me to just do two orders of that?"

Bucky nodded, relieved. Talking to other people was still a work in progress.

The waitress returned in a moment with two steaming coffee cups, sliding them onto the table. "Alright, do you know what you want or do you need a minute?"

"We're good," Steve said.

The waitress nodded, pulling out a notepad and pen. "What'll it be?"

"Can we do two orders of the breakfast special?" Steve asked.

The waitress scribbled it down, nodding. "Okay, is that it?"

Steve nodded, collecting their menus and handing them to her. She shot him them a smile. "Okay, it should be out in a few minutes."

"Thank you," Steve replied courteously. Bucky couldn't make himself say it, and immediately felt bad.  _No,_ a small voice in his head said.  _What's another thing you could think? 'I'm recovering and it's hard to talk to people._ God, those ABC worksheets were becoming burned in his brain.

Seeing the emptiness of the diner and the feeling on his head becoming unbearable he tugged off his cap, setting it next to him and running a hand through his hair. Immediately he felt better, nothing constricting or touching his head. He picked up his coffee mug, taking a sip. The hot bitter liquid was familiar and soothing, Bucky inhaling the rich scent as steam wafted in his face. Steve did the same, Bucky relaxing slightly in the comfortable atmosphere.

Steve nodded to where he'd placed the cap, gaze questioning. "Head?"

Bucky nodded. He still hadn't been able to let Steve touch his head. It was his biggest trigger, even during his time with Hydra. He supposed that was why they never cut his hair. No matter how they tried to condition him, the memory of the chair persisted and he always lashed out. Steve was very aware of his problems with his head, and took care not to go near it. He supposed it wasn't hard for him to make the connection between that and the hat.

"I could do it..before," he said quietly. "Right after. But now I can't." 

Steve pursed his lips. "Probably because you were still in fight-or-flight mode. You probably weren't thinking about it, or remembering as much. My therapist says sometimes things get worse afterwards once it sinks in. Like, in war, in the moment, maybe you don't feel horrified or even scared. You're just moving automatically. But then after, when it sinks in, all those feelings rush in." He shrugged. "Maybe the same concept applies."

Bucky nodded. It made sense, and made him feel a little better about it. "When did you get so smart?" He grumbled.

Steve laughed. "I'm hurt, Buck. Are you saying you thought I was stupid before?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. You're a dumb punk who liked starting fights with people twice your size. And letting scientists experiment on you. Literally walking straight into enemy territory without backup. Jumping out of planes without a parachute. Fucking letting me almost kill you. Do you want me to go on?"

Steve blushed, eyes still sparkling with mirth. "Uh, nope, I'm good." He took another sip of coffee, staring at Bucky over the rim with the brim of his own hat shading his eyes. Bucky raised an eyebrow and copied the motion, meeting his eyes. The staring contest lasted for a minute before Steve broke, chuckling. The corner of Bucky's mouth tugged up in a smirk, knowing he'd won. Back when Steve was small he would always win their staring contests, Bucky eventually giving in out of exasperation in the face of Steve's trademark defiance. But Steve had softened over the years in some ways, hardened in others. The war had made him stop being (so) reckless, making battle plans and thinking strategically instead of just rushing in half-cocked like he used to. He had lost that willful stubbornness that bordered on naivety, more level-headed and willing to compromise. That didn't mean he wasn't still stubborn and reckless though. Just different. They had both become different people, and had been through years of separate life experiences. It felt like they were starting over; trying to find a new way to fit together after everything. One would think that they wouldn't anymore, that because of how much they'd changed that they couldn't understand each other as well. But somehow they did. They had both changed in ways that complemented the other. Steve was more mature and supportive and rational, perfect for dealing with Bucky's fragile state. And Bucky was less overbearing, less annoyingly protective and snippy to Steve. Somehow, his jagged puzzle piece fit with Steve's, and they understood each other better than anyone else. Steve could read him like a book; always knew what he was thinking and when to back off, and Bucky could do the same for Steve. They had gentled- the rough, fiery, antagonistic relationship of their youth turning into something enduring and somehow deeper, even though they never went beyond a light kiss or a comforting touch.

Bucky reached out with his foot, snagging it around Steve's ankle. Steve jolted in surprise before shooting a smile at Bucky, letting his leg relax as he pressed their shins together. The waitress returned carrying two platters filled with food, setting them in front of each. 

"There you go," she said, giving them a quick smile. "Would you like a refill on those coffees?"

"Yes, thank you," Steve responded.

"Alright, I'll be back in second." She turned away again, the smells of bacon and syrup wafting from the plates and making Bucky's mouth water. He dug in, the food somehow better than any breakfast he'd made at the tower. The waitress came back with a pot of coffee, filling Steve's first. Bucky pushed his cup to the edge of the table with his flesh hand. She refilled it, waiting for him to take it back.

"Thank you," he said softly, drawing the cup back towards him.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling. "You're welcome. Do you guys need anything else?"

"I think we're good, thank you," Steve said politely.

She nodded. "Okay. Enjoy your meal."

"Thank you."

She disappeared again, Bucky continuing his attack on the enormous plate. He practically inhaled the food, finishing it off in a matter of minutes. Steve wasn't far behind, face expressing his enjoyment. They ate in and then sipped their coffees in a comfortable silence, Bucky relaxing with the good food and calm ambiance of the diner. When they were finished the waitress brought them their check, Steve paying in cash. Bucky left with a sense of accomplishment at having done something normal and enjoyable. The crowds were picking up by the time they exited the diner, people bustling by on their way to work and cars honking. Bucky felt slightly overwhelmed by it but gritted his teeth and persevered, the hat back on his head to obscure his face and Steve pressed against him acting as a barrier between him and passersby. When he got back he returned to his spot on the couch, opening to the dog-eared page of  _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows_. Steve settled opposite him with his sketchpad, Bucky stretching out to lay his feet in Steve's lap. He sighed in contentment, beginning to read. 

***

The therapy session went...well. They went through Bucky's ABC worksheets, adding more stuck points to the list and working through them. Kate challenged Bucky in logical loops of questioning that left Bucky exhausted and reeling. They discussed the one worksheet he had written about his trauma, changing  _I am weak for giving in_ (caving and going along with their training regime after days of torture) into  _I had no choice._ Kate had then talked about their next session, which made Bucky's anxiety ramp up.

"Next time, we're going to start doing the trauma account. Now, usually, we have people do a detailed account of the index event, or worse trauma, and then explore that deeply, the assumption being that dealing with the biggest will automatically make them able to process the rest. However, because of the nature of your trauma and the extent and duration, I think we need to focus on a few of the biggest areas and methodically go through them. So I'm going to have you start next week with what you feel is the most traumatic memory, and then we'll work from there. We won't move on to the next one until we've processed the last. It's going to be a very long and very difficult process; this is the hardest part of this therapy. But if we don't work through them, they'll never get better. Do you understand?"

Bucky had then nodded grudgingly, although just thinking about it made his stomach twist.

"Okay, so for next time I want you to sit down and write a detailed account of your chosen index trauma. Write down exactly what happened with as many details as possible, including sensory detail and what you were thinking and feeling at the time. The average written account is about eight pages long. If you can't do it in one sitting, draw a line where you stopped and pick up later. Then, when you're done, I want you to read it to yourself every day until our next session. It's important that you pick a time and place that's completely private so you can allow yourself to feel the emotions and react. Don’t be surprised if you feel your reactions almost as strongly as you did at the time of the incident. Your feelings have been stored in your memory intact. If you have not dealt with this event, your feelings and the details of the event are quite vivid when you finally confront the memory in its entirety. People tend to remember traumatic events in much greater detail than everyday events. Over time, if you continue to allow yourself to feel your feelings about the event, your feelings will become less intense and less overwhelming. Does that make sense?”

Another nod.

"Okay, and I also want you to keep doing the ABC worksheets every day. It's a lot of work for next week, and I'm not going to lie that it's going to suck. You good?"

He had taken a deep breath and nodded. Well, there was no going back. Time to dive right into the clusterfuck that was his Hydra memories. Kate had looked proud.

 ***

He chose the chair as his worst memory. There were so many times and the memories so distorted by the mind-wiping that they all blurred together, but a few stood out. There was one event in particular that culminated with the chair, one that had come back in full last week with a brutal nightmare. It had been the early days, 1963. One of his first missions, and this one in the States. Texas. The chair was new, scientists cautiously optimistic about its effectiveness. They had finally succeeded in wiping the Soldier's memories, leaving him a blank slate to mold to their will. It was their last-ditch effort, unable to figure out how to make Barnes their soldier for twenty years after his capture.

He went into his room and shut the door, informing Steve that he was working on a therapy project so he wouldn't get worried. He picked up a stack of paper and pencil, hand trembling as it hovered over the page. Then he began to write.

***

He sat in Kate's office, hand trembling where it gripped the sheaf of papers. He took a deep breath and began to read, voice flat like a mission report.

"It was 1963. It was one of my first missions. Hydra had finally created the chair, and succeeded in wiping my memories. They told me I was a Soldier, that I was loyal to Hydra, that the chair was there to fix me. I had been injured, they said. I got erratic, unstable. The chair would fix it. It would take the confusion away. I did not question it. I had no memories to tell me otherwise.

They treated me well. They treated me like a person, a respected member of their organization. I was their greatest Soldier. I served mother Russia and Hydra with unflinching loyalty. Not a summer soldier, or sunshine patriot. A Winter Soldier. I could think, I had freedom. They let me make choices. This was the first mission on American soil. Dallas, Texas. The target was an American president, John F. Kennedy. He was a threat to Hydra and to Russia. Russia was at war with America, they said. This man wanted to destroy communism and everything Russia had worked for, wanted to spread their American poison all over the world. That couldn't be allowed to happen. So they sent me. There was another gunman and someone to take the fall. I was the only one who could make the shot from where I was, an impossible shot for anyone else. No one would know I was there, or believe it. We shot at the same time, unnoticed in the commotion. I slipped away afterwards, blending into the crowd."

Inflection started to creep into his voice. "But the chair was still new and untested; unrefined. Hydra didn't really know yet how well the wipes held, or how long it would take for me to start remembering. They hadn't been able to do more than make me a blank slate. Something about the American accents triggered something in my brain. I had no idea why, but I didn't go back to the extraction point. It felt like there was something I had forgotten, something important. My head started to hurt. I had flashes of a city, but not Dallas. A face, someone familiar. I spoke English in these flashes, with an accent that was so...familiar. There were no memories of Russia, of growing up there or being a Russian soldier. Instead there were flashes of pain and fear and fighting against Hydra. I started to wonder if they had lied to me. I saw a picture, somewhere, of New York City. Something told me I had to go there. So I disappeared, missing the extraction time and catching a bus. I don't remember...all of it, but somehow I got there. It might have been a day or maybe a few days. I don't know. But I know the memories were coming back. I knew they had lied. I only had a name, Bucky, but it was enough. I was starting to come apart. And I went to the city but everything seemed so...wrong. And I looked at a newspaper and it said 1963, and I knew that was wrong everything was wrong and I was remembering and my head felt like it was splitting. But all I could think of was that I wanted to go home." His voice cracked. "I just wanted to go home."

Emotion started to bubble up inside him. "I got as far as the Brooklyn bridge before-before they found me. I didn't know about the trackers then. I remember I was standing on the bridge and they surrounded me. Before I could even fight they shot me with a tranquilizer. When I woke up I was strapped to the chair. A man came in, my handler. He asked why I hadn't reported for extraction. I said-I said, 'you lied.' But I wasn't even sure what about, I just knew that this was wrong, so wrong. And he said, in Russian, 'Soldat, what do you mean?'

"And I answered, 'I am not the Soldier. I am not Russian. You lied to me. I have a name. I am American.'

"But he just said, 'Soldier, you are confused. Your brain is unreliable. It tells you lies. Hydra is the only truth.'

"And suddenly I  _hated_ him, I knew he was lying, that something was wrong. I was...angry. So angry. I asked him, 'what did you do to me?'

"And he said-" his face twisted in a snarl-"he said 'I  _made_ you. You were  _nothing_ before Hydra. You should be grateful.' And then he called the technicians, and he said, 'wipe him thoroughly. No memory of this. And then we're starting over. A different approach. This isn't working.'

"And suddenly I understood. I understood what the chair was for. I was  _right."_ His voice was shaking. "I realized that I had had a  _life,_ that they had taken it from me over and over and told me nothing but lies. I wasn't Russian. I wasn't Hydra. I was an  _American,_ and I had a name. But they were going to take it from me again, and I would never know. And I started-" he was gritting his teeth now between words-"I started trying to get free, but I couldn't and the cuffs were too strong. I was...screaming at them. Something like..'what did you do to me,' and..." There was a dark scribble on the page. He skipped to the next sentence. "But there was no escape, and they powered up the chair. And I heard it...humming, and the electricity, and I  _remembered,_ I  _remembered_ the first time, them taking and taking until there was nothing left. But there was nothing I could do. And I started crying because I knew they were going to take everything from me, and I wouldn't even remember this. I wouldn't remember that this was wrong, that I wasn't Hydra. I wouldn't remember my own goddamn name. And it was the  _knowing_ that was worst. The first time they used the chair I hadn't known what was coming, what it would do. I thought it was just another torture. And then by the time I realized what was happening I didn't have enough memory  _to_ realize what was happening. You can't miss memories you don't know you had. So I didn't know enough the other times to know what it did, I just knew it took away the flashes that impacted my functionality. There was no sense of loss or anger, even though I dreaded the pain the chair brought. But this time, this time I  _knew_ what was going to happen. I knew they would erase Bucky and leave the Soldier in his place, and they would tell him lies. They would make him do things that Bucky didn't want to do, but the Soldier did, because he didn't know any better. I  _knew_ that I wouldn't remember thinking this in a few hours. Just-the thought that everything I was feeling right then was going to be gone, that I wouldn't even know it happened, that was the cruelest torture.

He was shaking, breaths labored and knuckles white where they gripped the paper. "And then the metal clamped down over my face, and-" he broke off, breaths heaving-"and it felt like my brain was being torn apart. And I was screaming and I tried to get away but I couldn't, I couldn't even move an inch." He had to stop to close his eyes, struggling to breathe. Finally he opened them, picking up reading. "And it was worse then all the other times because I tried to resist, because I didn't want it. The harder I tried the worse it was. I could feel every single memory disappearing, and every time I tried to hold onto it it vanished and I forgot what I was even trying to hold onto and I couldn't even think in the first place because it hurt so much. And then there was just nothing but pain. it didn't stop for...hours," he whispered. "I-"

The memory overwhelmed him, the scent of ozone and piss and sweat and his own strangled screams, hour after hour. The taste of blood in his mouth, spilling down his chin. He felt himself panicking, jaw clenched and body trembling as ragged breaths tore their way through him. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his flesh hand, trying to calm down. Kate was silent, letting him ride the "wave of emotion," as she liked to call it. Slowly, the panic dissipated, dissolving into an emptiness as he opened his eyes. He took a deep breath before continuing, voice flat once more.

"I bit through my tongue, and nearly choked on the blood. After they started giving me bite guards. I also pissed myself at some point, don't remember when. It's all pretty blurry after that. But that was the longest time in the chair. It wasn't refined then, they didn't know how to target things. When they finally figured it out it only lasted a few minutes, especially since they did it so often so there wasn't much to erase. And after that they treated me differently. They started implementing the conditioning, and they told me I was a weapon. That I wasn't a person, and I didn't have wants or thoughts or feelings. They stopped giving me choices or freedom. Everything was controlled, down to my food intake. I was completely dependent on them. They started giving me more drugs, I guess, to make me more compliant and functional, since I wasn't as effective when I couldn't think for myself. They only used me for simple, straightforward missions and kept me on a tight leash. When even that started to fail they moved to the trigger words. And ever since then, I hated the chair. I didn't remember why, but I hated it."

***

Bucky scribbled furiously, tears slipping down his face.  _I am feeling very distraught,_ he wrote, in parentheses, next to the current sentence of his rewritten trauma account. There, that was a specific emotion.  _I am feeling sad,_ he wrote next to another as he moved down. Besides another,  _I am feeling angry._ The account lengthened and expanded, every detail painstakingly rendered and every thought and feeling written down and experienced. He read it through again, able to get through without stopping or having a meltdown. Progress.

*** 

Bucky pored over the Challenging Questions worksheet, worrying his lip between his teeth.

 

 

**Challenging Questions Worksheet**

Below is a list of questions to be used in helping you challenge your maladaptive or problematic beliefs/stuck points. Not all questions will be appropriate for the belief/stuck point you choose to challenge. Answer as many questions as you can for the belief/stuck point you have chosen to challenge below.

Belief/Stuck Point:______________________________________________________________

1\. What is the evidence for and against this stuck point?

FOR:

AGAINST:

2\. Is your stuck point a habit or based on facts?

3\. In what ways is your stuck point not including all of the information?

4\. Does your stuck point include all-or-none terms?

5\. Does the stuck point include words or phrases that are extreme or exaggerated (i.e., always, forever, never, need, should, must, can’t, and every time)?

6\. In what way is your stuck point focused on just one piece of the story?

7\. Where did this stuck point come from? Is this a dependable source of information on this stuck point?

8\. How is your stuck point confusing something that is possible with something that is likely?

9\. In what ways is your stuck point based on feelings rather than facts?

10\. In what ways is this stuck point focused on unrelated parts of the story?

***

His voice was hoarse as he described the murder of Howard and Maria Stark.  _There's a difference between responsibility and blame,_ Kate said.  _It wasn't my fault,_ his ABC check told him.

***

Kate laughed as he recounted a ridiculous tale involving Howard Stark, Peggy Carter, Captain America's shield, and a chicken in the middle of a war zone. He laughed until he started crying, finally letting go of his grief and guilt over Howard's death. Something like peace and forgiveness blossomed in his chest.

***

He talked about waking up with the metal arm, the horror and revulsion that had overtaken him. He talked about trying to claw it out, the starburst of scars attesting to his efforts. Kate made him do everything with the metal arm, from cooking breakfast to petting Koshka.  _Associate it with good things,_ she said.  _It's your arm. You see it as a weapon, something that's only caused harm, but it can be so much more than that. You can do beautiful and gentle things with it._ He let Steve touch it, interlacing their fingers carefully. Steve smiled, utterly unbothered. 

***

He recounted torture after torture, the weight lifting off his shoulders with every week. Some days were bad, Bucky feeling like shattered glass. Holes littered the walls of the apartment from his fists, pouring out his rage and grief and sorrow. On bad days he would slouch into the diner in the early hours of the morning, dark shadows under his eyes as Steve sat across from him; a steady presence. The waitress Nicole was there on weeknights, ready with a warm smile and soft voice. They kept their visits just infrequent and random enough in case they were being watched. Bucky knew Nicole had to know who they were by now, but she never said a word, only sliding their regular order across the table with a sympathetic smile. It had been nine weeks since he had first stepped foot in the diner, twelve since he had started therapy. While the first few days after DC had seemed to be a lifetime, each day a million revelations, the days flowed by quickly now. Weeks went by in a blur of doing therapy homework, exercising, reading, cooking, and spending time with Steve and Sam as well as Imani and Maria when they dropped by. They had celebrated Steve's birthday on July fourth, Stark cackling over the fact that it was his real birthday. They had stayed inside the soundproofed tower when the fireworks started, both not a fan after the war. Bucky had helped Sam bake a cake, with ninety-six candles on it that he impressively managed to blow out with one breath. One point for the supersoldier. Later, they had watched disney movies as Bucky cuddled with Steve on the couch, Tony and Sam getting progressively drunker as the night went on. Natasha Romanoff had apparently texted Steve happy birthday from wherever she was currently hiding, sending a bunch of little pictures called emoticons. For the life of him, Bucky couldn't figure out what the string of seemingly random emoticons was supposed to mean. Steve suggested asking Stark but Bucky quickly vetoed that decision, trying to spare Steve the embarrassment when it inevitably turned out to be something inappropriate and they had just armed Stark with that information.

Stark had been coordinating with the Black Widow, Hawkeye, the Hulk, and some apparent God named Thor on missions to wipe Hydra from the face of the earth. Sam had even joined them for a few missions, Tony building him a new set of wings (he apparently also had the designs for a new arm but Bucky wasn't ready for that). Bucky hadn't met any of the other Avengers. He probably wasn't quite ready to be surrounded by a bunch of the world's deadliest people who were also not that much more stable then him. Steve still hadn't gone on any missions, not wanting to leave Bucky.

Also Bucky privately thought that if Steve found any Hydra members he'd break all the Geneva Conventions, and that wouldn't really go over well with the American public. Besides, Bucky would say he could handle being alone for one day but, well, honestly he probably couldn't. If he didn't know Steve was safe at all times he was liable to freak out. Another thing they would apparently be working on in therapy. Yay. 

In therapy they were just finishing the major traumas-the chair, killing for Hydra, the arm, and torture. He had had to write a detailed account for every one, laboriously writing and re-writing it and reading and re-reading it over and over until it didn't affect him so much. It had been rough getting through them, marked by emotional outbursts and panic attacks and dissociation and crying. Lots of crying. And punching walls.

But gradually, it had gotten better. He could think of the chair without melting into a puddle. He could remember the good times he had with Howard Stark and interact with Tony without being crippled by guilt and flashes of his bloody face. And he had  _emotions._ Sometimes he thought he had more emotions then he knew what to do with. He had started off with only anger, shame, and fear, the rest a blank void. Now he cried at the drop of a hat, laughed at Steve's jokes, raged and expressed horror over what Hydra had done. He  _felt._ He was  _allowed_ to feel. It was freeing, although sometimes annoying. He had sobbed for an hour over the beginning of  _Up,_ for God's sake. He felt like an fucking basket-case of emotion. But that was good, Kate said. Feeling is healing.

And best of all, he had started being able to be touched. Imani and Maria had come over and ever-so-gently braided his hair the week after he recounted the chair. Their hands had been soft and soothing, nothing like having his brain fried by electricity. After that he loved to have them do his hair and they spent hours brushing his hair and giving him elaborate braids, careful not to pull too tightly. And Steve. If he telegraphed his motions so as not to startle Bucky Steve could touch him, could give him a gentle hug and a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, could stroke his hair as Bucky lay in his lap. They still hadn't gone beyond cuddling in bed and a few soft kisses, Bucky feeling no inclination to go further and Steve not pressuring. It was amazing enough that Steve could even just touch Bucky's head without him completely freaking out, so. Kate had said this was normal, that it was actually very okay. Bucky had filled her in more on his and Steve's relationship and while she had stressed healthy boundaries she thought it was good for Bucky.

It was. Bucky's memories had almost all come back, at least vaguely. Most people's memories weren't complete or clear anyway, though. At least all the memories before Hydra had come back fairly perfectly and easily, helped by the fact that they were mostly good, and triggered by Steve always being around. He cherished those memories, held them close and pored over them obsessively, chasing the only bright memories he had to drown out the bad. The Hydra memories were another story. Because of the chair, some memories seemed to be lost forever or shrouded in fog. It might be permanent, Kate said. People who received ECT or had a head injury often lost memories around the time of the event due to the brain not able to consolidate and encode the information effectively due to the injury or induced seizure. The brain damage caused by the chair meant some things around that time might never come back. That was okay with Bucky. The memories of Hydra were all horrible, and he didn't exactly yearn to have any more. Sometimes he still discovered new ones, waking up from a nightmare panting with new horrors in his head. The nightmares and flashbacks had decreased with the therapy and were rare for the traumas they had covered, but new memories never failed to elicit a horror show in his head. 

But overall, things were getting better.  He had just finished his second session on his torture trauma accounts, the twelfth therapy appointment he'd attended. This coming Thursday they were reviewing patterns of problematic thinking and continuing the challenging thoughts worksheets he had been doing before starting on the Safety Module of therapy. It would go Safety, Trust, Power/Control, Esteem, and Intimacy, until they had covered all the areas of his impact statement. Then he would write a final impact statement at which point he would be done with the intense program, coming in as needed to continue to work on problem areas.

Bucky was actually feeling hopeful. Only six more weeks of intense therapy and he would be considered well enough to function on his own. He should give Kate the fucking moon for working with him. She had given him  _everything._ She had even let him be resentful and hateful of her while he was working through the traumas.  _I want to be completely open and honest with you,_ she had said,  _so you are allowed to be completely open and honest with me. You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to say you hate this, hate me. Go ahead. Hydra fucked you over for seventy years, so fuck social niceties. I'm not going to stop you._ And he had. He had told her he hated therapy, hated everything, that she was horrible for making him do this, that it wasn't helping. She hadn't even blinked. Then, when all his feelings were out and nothing had happened, no punishment had come down, and he was fucking getting better, he realized that she was trying to help. He apologized, but she waved him off, saying he had a right to say what he felt. In short, she was fucking amazing. They had cultivated a relationship over the weeks that was trusting and warm, and Bucky felt like he could tell her anything. She often asked about his week, and he would tell her small things he did that were actually accomplishments, and she would smile, and sometimes offer Bucky a piece of chocolate. He was pretty sure it was actually positive reinforcement.

Bucky was still reading his trauma accounts daily, as they ran deep and still weren't completely gone. Kate had reassured him that this was okay for him. She had said that his trauma was so severe that it wasn't just going to go away so soon. In fact, these events were so naturally horrifying and distressing that he would always look back on them with negative feelings, but they just wouldn't control him anymore or haunt his every waking hour. If he continued reading these accounts every day and allowing himself to feel the feelings then it should gradually get better. It seemed to be true. With every reading the horrible feelings and flashbacks got less, the event seeming real but not overwhelming. Not here. It was in the past, where it belonged, and couldn't affect him any more.

It was Wednesday night, and Steve and Bucky were getting ready for bed. They had slept in the same bed almost every day, except when Bucky was having an especially bad brain day and needed to be alone. Bucky always spooned Steve, for some reason never thinking about doing it the opposite way around, with Steve at his back. Steve never offered or tried, and so they always slept the same way. Bucky was staring out the bedroom window in his sleep sweatpants and a t-shirt, taking in the view of the Manhattan skyline twinkling in the darkness. His hair was up in a loose bun, having learned how to do it himself from Imani and Maria. He heard Steve approach behind him, his reflection looming behind Bucky on the glass. He extended a careful hand, settling it on Bucky's waist and waiting. Bucky reached back, touching his hand to signal it was okay. Steve moved closer, pressing against Bucky's back and curling his hands around his hips as his breath ghosted over the back of Bucky's neck. Suddenly there was a flash, _a heavy body pressed against him, hot breath panting against the back of his neck a hand around his throat pressure and pain as they..._

He whirled and lashed out with his metal arm, throwing Steve across the room as pure unadulterated panic and horror crashed over him, breaths coming in gasps. Nausea rose up and he sprinted to the bathroom, just making it to the toilet in time to throw up everything in his stomach. He heaved and retched, hyperventilating as his head reeled and a tight feeling coiled in his abdomen, a mix of shame and revulsion and horror. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he threw himself against the back wall of the bathroom, drawing his knees up and curling over them, hands pressed to his face as he shuddered and gasped. Steve came rushing into the bathroom, looking stricken.

"Buck?" he said, entering cautiously. "What happened?"

"Get out," Bucky mumbled.

"Buck-"

"GET OUT!" Bucky screamed, clutching his head as he sobbed.

Steve, used to his outbursts and flashbacks over the last few weeks, retreated silently, leaving the door ajar. Bucky wrapped his arms around him and pressed his forehead to his knees, sobs ripped from him with every breath and body shaking. The memories came back in pieces, each one worst than the last. This was something Hydra had tried to burn out so thoroughly that he hadn't even known it was there until now. Memory was like that. All the information could be in your head, but you can't access it unless you have a retrieval cue. And, well, he knew what the retrieval cue was now. 

_Rape._ The word floated across his consciousness, horrible and permanent. It had been an American. Of course it had. The Russians would never have done that to him. He was a weapon, not a toy. They respected him far too much. But the American... _Rumlow._ He had been sadistic, someone who got off on power. Of course it had been the ultimate power trip to take the Soldier. But the Soldier never even fought back. His conditioning made him passive and compliant, accepting whatever hands poked and pushed at his body. And Rumlow had been high-ranking, the Soldier conditioned not to hurt him. Rumlow had...he had taken advantage of that. Over, and over, and over and over and over...and it had broken something deep within the Soldier. He became erratic, unstable. He had-he had- _blood dripping down his hands, pooling on the floor. Dead techs splayed around the room, limbs twisted and eyes unseeing._   _A scream as they tried to subdue him, the Soldier thrashing and snarling as they managed to strap him to the chair._ Pierce had found out. Bucky remembered distantly, as if through a fog.  _"Agent Rumlow, the Asset is a highly valuable weapon. We cannot have this compromising him. Wipe him. No traces. Clean up your mess. And don't do this again."_

Hydra had burned this so thoroughly out of his memory, and Bucky had so repressed it, that he hadn't even known until now. And now he wished he didn't. He shoved his knuckles into his mouth and bit down on a scream as tears slipped from his eyes, a hole opening in his midsection. Shame and humiliation flooded him, the urge to throw up again almost overpowering as the memories tore through his mind, over and over and over. His face, pressed into the wall, mask still on. One arm twisted behind his back while metal fingers left gouges in the wall. His body, limp and pliant and why hadn't he fucking fought back he could have killed Rumlow easily but he hadn't, he hadn't even said no he hadn't said no he didn't _do_ anything why didn't he do anything why did this happen why why why-

He was hyperventilating again, metal hand tightening on his thigh hard enough to bruise. The nausea reared it's head again and he scrambled to the toilet, dry heaving over the rim. He choked and gasped, nothing coming up and his whole body shaking like a leaf. He had just enough cognizance to reach up and flush the toilet, relieving the smell of vomit and allowing him to breathe without dry heaving. He crawled back into the corner of the bathroom, resuming his curled position. He felt numbness creeping up on him, that blessed blankness where he could retreat inside his head. He let it overtake him, gaze fixed and unblinking as his mind went somewhere safe and far away from the horror film currently repeating behind his eyes.

 ***

Someone was crouched in front of him, speaking softly. Bucky's mind distantly registered that it was Sam. 

"-ey man, are you with us?"

He felt like he was watching himself from outside his body, like some sort of dream. He couldn't feel his body, or anything really. Everything was just a dull, grey blank. There were no conscious thoughts in his head, no sense of being real. Everything was static.

There were more muted voices, somewhere outside the room. "How long did you say he's been like this?"

"Since nine. He's dissociated before, as you know, but never for this long. I don't know what to do. One minute he was fine, the next-bam."

"What were you guys doing?"

"Nothing, honestly. I have no idea. He was standing at the window, and I came up behind him. But he knew I was there. He gave me our touch signal to let me know it was okay to touch him. I went to hug him from behind but then he threw me across the room and ran here, where he started throwing up. I've never seen him react this way. Usually he just flinches or freezes and I know I wasn't careful enough. But there was no warning, nothing. He just snapped. And he's been doing so much better. I don't know what happened."

A slight silence. "I don't know, man. His triggers are his triggers. And recovery's not linear. You never know what mousetrap you'll step on in your brain. Especially Barnes. But this is concerning. I'll try to do some grounding, which usually works, but we may just have to wait it out."

Footsteps approached, a figure crouching down in front of Bucky again. "Hey, it's just Sam. Steve's here as well. You're in the tower, in your apartment, in the bathroom. It's July eighth, three o'clock in the morning. So actually I guess it's technically July ninth now. You've been checked out for a while. It's okay if you don't want to talk, just know you're safe, and Steve and I are right here. You're okay."

Some awareness was coming back, his limbs aching and seat numb from sitting on the floor all night. Sam resolved in his vision, Steve standing a little ways behind him. Bucky blinked and heard Steve sigh in relief.

"Buck?" he said softly.

Clarity trickled back in, but with it came the remembrance of last night. Something dark and twisted and ashamed curled in his gut, his skin feeling dirty and tainted. He wanted to scrub Rumlow's touch from his skin, wanted to peel it off, get it off, get it off-his metal hand clutched at his wrist, where Rumlow had grabbed him, and squeezed, the pain echoing the feeling of Rumlow's grip. He deserved this. He hadn't fought back. He had hurt Steve. He hadn't fought back. He'd killed them all. He hadn't fought back. He deserved this.

"Woah, woah," Sam said worriedly. "Hey man, stop that. You're safe. You're okay." Bucky didn't reply, staring ahead blankly as he increased the pressure on his wrist. There was a snap and Sam's hand shot out to grab his metal arm. "No!" Sam and Steve both yelled at the same time.

The metal arm struck Sam in the face, knocking him backwards as Bucky snarled. "Don't touch me!" His voice was rough and crazed, breaths coming fast. He didn't even feel the pain in his broken wrist, a panic-fueled numbness settling in his body.

Sam scooted away, one hand raised in surrender and one cradling his face. Steve stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom, eyes wide and hands raised placatingly.

"Buck, it's okay, it's just us," he said thickly. "You're in the tower. It's me-it's Steve."

Bucky pressed his back to the wall, head twitching slightly as shudders ran through his body. He drifted between completely blank and full of primal terror with every shudder, eyes focusing in and out. Sam and Steve didn't move, watching him with concern and a healthy dose of wariness. Bucky hunched over, right wrist resting in his lap as he dropped his head onto his knees, trying to breathe. He felt like he was choking on the wave of black emotion that rose up within him, shame and humiliation and guilt and anger fighting for dominance. He couldn't-he couldn't let Steve know. He couldn't tell him. The torture and the mind-wipes and everything, Steve had a general idea of and that was okay. But the thought of him learning this made him want to throw up again. It was so... _wrong._ So utterly, deeply humiliating. He couldn't tell anyone.

He swallowed down the emotion and raised his head just enough to see Steve and Sam, his face impassive. "I'm fine," he said flatly. "Leave me alone."

Sam squinted. "Uh, sorry but we can't do that man. You literally just broke your own arm. Again." Bucky looked down at his arm in mild surprise, having forgotten. "Which is bad in it's own right, but then we know what happened after that last time. You're gonna have to have that looked at, and then you're back on watch. That's the way it is, okay?"

Bucky suddenly had the desire to rip Sam's throat out. He opened his mouth, lip curled. "Make. Me."

Sam blinked, looking to Steve in desperation, who looked just as lost. "Uh, I don't want to make you do anything. But I can't let you hurt yourself, either. Can we come up with some sort of compromise here?"

Bucky just glared. It was all he had left.

Steve spoke up hesitantly. "Buck, no one is going to make you do anything. We're not Hydra. But you need to set that arm. If Sam brings medical supplies, can you do it yourself?"

Bucky drifted back to the flat blankness. "Fine."

Steve and Sam looked relieved. Sam slowly stood up, backing away. "Okay, I'll be back." He shot a glance at Steve, a silent conversation passing between them before Sam left.

Steve lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the white tile. Nonthreatening. He could usually bring Bucky out of his flashbacks and nightmares fine, Bucky eventually melting into his arms. But the thought of touching Steve now made revulsion curl inside him for both reasons. He couldn't taint Steve, and touch made the memories resurface. 

Steve shifted, eyes worried as they assessed him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Bucky twitched. "NO," he snarled.

"Okay, you don't have to," Steve replied, nonplussed. He was used to Bucky's anger after flashbacks. "But I'm here if you want to."

Bucky stared into space, not responding. 

A few minutes later Sam came jogging back, hands full. "Okay, I have what we need. Wrap and your wrist splint. Also ice for my face cause you got me pretty good. Really, you should get an x-ray, but I'm not going to push. If I slide it over to you, will you take it? We're not going to leave you alone until you do."

Bucky grudgingly nodded. Sam slid the wrap and splint from his previous injury over, careful to maintain his distance. "Okay, can you hold it up so I can see it? I don't know how bad it is."

Bucky lifted his arm from his lap, resting his elbow on his knee so Sam could see the wrist. It was rapidly purpling and swelling, red finger marks visible. Sam swallowed. "Okay, it doesn't look to be out of place that I can tell. Just make sure you keep it straight when you wrap it. You know how to do that?"

Bucky scowled, picking up the wrap with his metal hand. He quickly wrapped his wrist with clinical detachment, securing the splint over it. It felt like a clean break along the radius, and would heal in a couple days. He didn't really care. That done, he continued his stare at the far wall. 

"Okay, that's good," Sam said slowly. "Thank you. Now, we're gonna have to keep you under watch, but you choose where you want to be. Do you want to stay in here or move somewhere else?"

"I don't care," Bucky replied flatly.

"Right. Right, well, this isn't the most comfortable place. If you don't care, then are you okay moving to somewhere more comfortable? Like bed, or the couch?"

"Fine."

"Okay. We'll, uh, back up so you can get up, and then you lead the way wherever." Sam slowly retreated, Steve getting up as well until they were in the hallway. Bucky levered himself up with his metal hand, pins and needles in his legs. He made his way to the doorway, right wrist pressed against his stomach. He turned right, heading for the living room. Steve and Sam followed a safe distance behind, the feeling of their eyes on his exposed back making him twitch. Sinking down in his corner of the couch, he pulled the ever-present fuzzy blanket around him and resumed his position; arms pressed to his stomach, knees drawn up, gaze fixated on a point in the middle distance as he pressed against the couch. Steve cautiously took his place at the other end, making sure to stay furthest away, and Sam took his armchair. The were just visible in the dim light of the apartment, Bucky's enhanced vision picking them out easily.

"Alright, one of us is going to keep an eye on you at all times, but we're not gonna pressure you to talk or do anything. Also, it's three in the morning and neither you nor Steve have slept yet so I recommend both of you try to do that. I'll stay awake to keep watch."

Steve nodded across from him. "Yeah, I'll try to sleep, but I'm right here Buck. You can wake me up for anything."

Bucky didn't reply, staring ahead. Eventually Steve sighed, taking another blanket from the back of the couch and leaning his head back against the couch. Within an indeterminable amount of minutes he was asleep, breathing deep and even. Sam pulled out his Starkpad and began reading one of the books he had on there, every so often looking up surreptitiously to check on Bucky. Bucky dropped his head to his knees, eyes closed. He sat there, mind swirling with suffocating emotions and flashes of dark thoughts.

He felt like someone had carved his insides out with a melon-baller and shoved something oozing and painful in. It dripped with shame, a crawling feeling along his skin that made his throat tighten with nausea. There was an ache in his chest, a black hole of repressed emotion.  _Feeling is healing,_ Kate always said. Well fuck that. He didn't want to feel this. Torture was something that happened to people, to soldiers. Even the brainwashing and mind-control were acceptable, known. People felt horrified by what Hydra had done to him, but it was sympathy and support.  _You're so strong,_ they said. He had begun to accept that during therapy. Hydra had done horrible things to him, and it wasn't his fault. Sure. But rape wasn't something that happened to people like him. It wasn't something that happened to men, or to soldiers. It wasn't something that made you strong. It was shameful, pathetic, repulsive. And he had let it happen. He hadn't fought back, or even said no. He was a fucking coward. It was his fault. He didn't even know why he was so fucking upset over this. It was his fault. He let it happen. It wasn't even rape. If he really hadn't wanted it he could have stopped it. He was just fucked-up enough to let it happen. He felt dirty, disgusting. Steve would be disgusted by him if he knew. He wouldn't want Bucky now that he'd let himself be tainted. If he knew that Bucky was so fucking weak and pathetic. This wasn't something that happened to him. This wasn't something that happened to him. It wasn't. It wasn't. It was. It was his fault. 

He didn't know how long he sat there, thoughts festering, but suddenly light was streaming in the windows and Steve was grunting awake, yawning as he stretched. He looked over at Bucky.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"No." He decided to try and act as normal as possible, but he didn't know how. He didn't know how to deal with this. He had promised Steve to keep living, but he didn't know how he could now. How was he supposed to move forward? It felt like there was a weight in his chest that wouldn't go away. He couldn't deal with this. He couldn't act normal when it consumed his every thought.

"How are you feeling?" Sam questioned. His left cheekbone was swollen and purple, eye blackening from where Bucky had backhanded him with his metal arm.

"I'm fine."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Fine? Sorry but I'm not really, uh, getting 'fine' vibes here. Forgive me if I don't take your word for it, but I'm not gonna leave you alone just to have you hurt yourself again."

"Sam," Steve admonished softly.

"You know I'm right, Steve. And Bucky, man, I'm not trying to be harsh or mean. I just want to keep you safe. You broke your arm last night, wouldn't talk about it, and now you've got that whole "I'm fine" emotionless zombie thing going on. That's literally the exact script you followed last time right before you swallowed a bottle of pills."

Bucky scowled. Damn, Sam had his number. Wasn't he supposed to be a fearsome assassin and spy? Well, apparently a pretty pathetic one. Just like everything else. "Fine," he bit out. "I don't care."

"Alllright," Sam said. "Also, Dr. Johnson is definitely hearing about this, and you're going to therapy today. Non-negotiable. If you won't talk to us, you gotta at least talk to her."

"Fine."

"I don't trust that you're gonna tell her in the session, so either you or I call her right now so I know she knows. Your choice."

Bucky did  _not_ feel like explaining what happened, or talking at all. He glared some more. "You."

Sam nodded. "Okay, Imma call her right now, so you know exactly what I'm saying. Steve, you want to get started on breakfast?"

Steve nodded, getting up and disappearing into the kitchen. Sam pulled out his phone, scrolling until he found the number and hitting call. He put it on speaker, the sound of ringing echoing from the tinny speakers. It cut off abruptly.

"Hello?" Kate's voice came through.

"Hi, it's Sam Wilson. Bucky is here with me, but he doesn't want to talk. I'm calling about an..incident we had that you should be aware of before your session, cause I don't trust Bucky to tell you."

"Oh, okay. Hello Bucky. I'm glad you agreed to have Sam call me. That's really great. What happened?"

"Well, Bucky got...triggered by something last night, won't tell us what. Had a panic attack, dissociated for six hours, woke up, broke his own wrist, and then just about smashed my face in when I tried to touch him. Pretty strongly refused medical treatment but we got him to splint it himself. We've been keeping an eye on him, but he hasn't slept yet. It's pretty much, uh," he glanced at Bucky, "unemotional robot or aggressive hostility right now. The thing is it's basically the same script as right before the last suicide attempt, so I had to make a safety plan. Told him we gotta keep him under watch and you had to know. I think that's it, unless you want to add anything, Bucky?" Bucky leveled him with a dead stare. "Okay, I'll take that as a no."

He could hear Kate breathing on the other end. "Okay, thank you for telling me Sam. Bucky, I'll see you at two. If you can, try to practice some of our exercises for when you're feeling this way. If not, that's okay. I don't care if you come in and don't speak a word at our session, as long as you show up. Okay?"

The compulsion to respond to her warm voice overrode his resentment. "Fine."

"Thank you, Bucky. And thanks, Sam. Alright, I'll let you go. See you soon."

"Thanks, doc." Sam hung up. He checked his watch. "It's currently around 7:00. Bruce should be here at eight for your pain meds. That wrist is probably hurting you too, and the last dose wearing off. Steve's working  on breakfast. You want to shower first, or maybe just brush your teeth? I mean, you did throw up last night."

Bucky nodded mutely and turned towards the bathroom. He thought about taking a shower but the idea of having to take his clothes off sent revulsion skittering down his spine. He settled for brushing his teeth. Then he popped into his room to throw on an oversized sweater over his t-shit, covering as much skin as possible. He kept his sweatpants on, even the thought of touching them abhorrent. Feeling his hair slipping out of it's messy bun he undid it, letting it fall in a curtain around his face. When he wandered back into the kitchen Steve was just finishing up making eggs and toast. Sam was grabbing plates, the faintest shadow of relief passing his face when he saw Bucky. Bucky slouched into a chair, Steve giving him a smile as he turned around from the stove, pan in hand. He set it in the center of the table, sitting down next to Sam across from Bucky. They had a system. Steve would sit next to Bucky unless he was having a bad touch day, when he would sit with Sam. Bucky was suddenly very grateful for this system. Steve and Sam both piled eggs on their plate, but the thought of food turned Bucky's stomach. He grabbed a piece of toast for show, taking slow, minuscule bites with his metal hand, as his right was out of commission. 

He felt Sam and Steve giving him worried glances. It was rare that Bucky didn't want food. Only after the worst nightmares and flashbacks did his appetite decrease at all, and if anything it was usually the opposite. Food, and cooking, were comforting to Bucky. Kate called it a coping skill. Sometimes when he had a bad night and was angry at the world he would just start cooking, banging pans like they had personally offended him. But then the methodic, structured activity would gradually calm him down as he went, having to pay attention to detail in the recipes and the scents of food always a good offset for bad flashbacks. The sensations helped to ground him, and he loved food. So the fact that he wasn't eating was probably concerning. 

He didn't really care. He ignored their stares, eyes fixed on the table in front of him. The toast felt like ash in his mouth. Breakfast passed in an awkward silence, Steve and Sam seeming unsure what to do. Finally they were done, Bucky giving up on the pretense of eating. Steve and Sam carried their dishes to the sink while Bucky drifted back to the couch, Koshka already there. Realizing he hadn't fed her he turned back around, heading for the kitchen. Steve and Sam were still washing dishes so he tried to skirt around them, opening the fridge and withdrawing Koshka's food before going through the motions of putting in her dish. She trotted up, digging in. He put the food back in the fridge, closing it and turning only to run straight into Steve. 

All-consuming terror flared and he wanted to get away get away get away but suddenly he couldn't move, his whole body was frozen, small tremors running through him as his vision blurred. He couldn't move a muscle, could only stand, paralyzed, while his heart raced and black spots appeared before his eyes. The panic disappeared as quickly as it came, drowned to a dull roar that he couldn't quite understand. Everything seemed distant, like it was underwater, his heartbeat the only thing he could hear over the rushing in his ears. Someone was saying something indistinctly, a blurry figure in his vision.

"-ucky, Bucky, it's just me. You're safe. It's Steve. Can you hear me?"

Bucky tried to open his mouth but it was glued shut, his throat closed up. He could only stand there, eyes wide and glassy and body immobilized. The world was spinning, blurring in and out of focus. His limbs tingled. Something inside him whispered  _move, get away,_ but he couldn't. He had no control over his body, mind still numb and staticky and breaths shallow.

The figure was still speaking. "You're in the kitchen, it's July ninth, 7:30 a.m. You're having a panic attack, of sorts. You're safe. It's just me and Sam. No one is going to hurt you."

Anger started to bubble through the numbness. Anger, and shame, and utter blind rage. The feeling in his body came back in a rush and he lunged, slamming his metal fist into the wall as a strangled scream emitted from his throat, relief at finally being able to move trickling in with the motion. He staggered back, struggling to breathe as the panic attack finally rushed through him. Steve took a hesitant step forward.

"Buck, you okay?" 

Bucky couldn't look at him, couldn't let Steve close for fear he'd contaminate him with Bucky's shame. The memories of he and Steve together blurred with the memories of Rumlow and made nausea rise in his throat. He had a surge of self-loathing for burdening Steve with his pathetic self. "Fuck off," he snarled between breaths. Better to push Steve away, make him hate him.

"Hey man, he's just trying to help. I get you're upset," Sam said gently. "Why don't we all take some deep breaths, calm down. Everything's okay."

Bucky raised his eyes to glare at Sam. Everything was  _not_ okay. Sam held his gaze evenly, not intimidated. Bucky continued to glare as he tried to breathe, the panic attack gradually passing.

"Okay, you're doing good. I'm guessing you don't want to tell us what triggered you?"

"No."

"Alright. But from experience, whenever you lash out at us you're actually mad at yourself. And I don't know what about right now, but I can tell you're really hurting. So I'm here for you, and Steve's here for you. You're not going to scare us away, no matter what you say. We can take it."

Bucky looked down, suddenly ashamed for how he'd been treating Sam. Great, another thing wrong with him. The anger dissipated, leaving a hollow ache in his chest. He swallowed, nodding slightly. Sam was too good to him. Bucky didn't deserve his unending patience and understanding.

"I'm sorry, Buck. I didn't mean to touch you," Steve said. "That's twice I've accidentally triggered you in 24 hours. I'm really sorry."

God, Steve was so fucking _good_. So much better than Bucky. He wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't get the words out. He couldn't even look in Steve's direction. There was a silence. Then, "Wait, was it me? Did I do something? Buck, look at me, please."

Bucky's mouth twisted, but he couldn't obey. 

"Hey man, can you look at me?" Sam asked curiously. Bucky grudgingly lifted his gaze, meeting Sam's eyes. "You don't have a problem glaring at me, but you haven't even looked in Steve's direction once since..." his eyebrows raised in surprise and revelation, "last night. Is it because you accidentally hit Steve when you got triggered?"

Bucky shook his head. Sam frowned. "No, cause you hit me worse and you're fine with me. So is it something about Steve? I don't know, some Hydra fuckery they tried to do about him?"

Bucky shook his head. 

Sam looked confused. "You guys fight or something?"

Bucky shook his head.

"It's just something about Steve?"

Bucky hesitated before shaking his head, then nodding. Sam narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. "It's not about Steve, but it is?"

Bucky scowled, annoyance rising again. He didn't know why he was answering Sam's questions. He didn't want to talk about this.

"Okay, and you don't want to say what it is? I gotta say, you're kinda leaving us in the dark on how to help you. I need to know if something about Steve is triggering you."

"No."

"No...? No Steve isn't triggering you?"

He nodded.

"Okay, well that's good, I guess." Sam scratched his head. Suddenly he squinted at Bucky. "Wait, are you doing that thing where you think Steve deserves better than you and so you push him away?"

Bucky flinched. Sam looked triumphant for a second before sobering.

"Buck." Steve sounded wounded. "That's not true. I love you. I don't care about whatever you're thinking. There's nothing you could do to make me love you any less. Just tell me what's wrong."

The rage rushed back and the walls slammed back down. Bucky's mouth twisted, still not looking at Steve. "I don't want to talk about it," he growled. "Nothing's wrong. Leave me alone." He turned and stalked out of the kitchen, going into his room and slamming the door. He leaned back against it, angry tears pricking at his eyes. Goddamnit. He couldn't even hold himself together for a few hours. He was so fucking weak.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Implied/referenced sexual assault (talked about in therapeutic context).

Kate sat behind her desk, chewing on the tip of her pen. The call that morning had worried her, and she didn't know what to expect. When she had first taken this job she had almost been overwhelmed by the task set in front of her, by everything she had read in the files that made her stomach turn. Tony Stark had reached out to her, hinting at a job offer. When she had signed a non-disclosure agreement he had revealed that he was considering her as a candidate to work with recently rediscovered James Barnes turned Winter Soldier. She had been keeping up on the news, and strongly felt that Barnes was a victim and deserved compassion. As soon as he asked her if she would be interested in treating him she immediately said yes, even though the task seemed daunting. She simply felt that it was her duty as a psychologist to try and help the one person who probably needed help most. She jumped into research on the files, trying to understand what he'd been through and how she might be able to help him best. But Bucky had been through so much trauma that she hadn't even known if she _could_ help him. There was no standard of treatment for super soldiers who got tortured and brainwashed into a deadly assassin for Nazis. She hadn't even known where his mental state was after DC. Was he still the Winter Soldier, all blank face and deadly grace? Or was he a severely traumatized soldier who was falling apart?

When he had first walked in, her impression was that he was somewhere in between the two. He spoke in short, broken sentences if he couldn't nod or shake his head, his eyes darted around warily, and his face was blank and expressionless. The first session he had barely spoken two words, and Kate had rambled to hide some of her nervousness and not actually knowing what she was doing. At least going through the symptoms seemed to put in perspective that he had PTSD just the same as anyone else, even though his trauma was worse. She decided to just treat him like any other patient she had, and trust the treatment process. It was the best she could do. But then the impact statement. The level of emotion and sheer eloquence and self-awareness that had come through astounded her. She had thought that Bucky was more of an emotionless zombie, barely regaining a sense of self after Hydra. She didn't know how much he actually comprehended about what had happened to him. But he had expressed complete thoughts and feelings just like anyone else, and his negative self-thoughts were almost exactly like every other patient she'd had. Furthermore, when she started to try and poke at those thoughts, he readily worked with her and changed them. He was willing to work through things and challenge his own thoughts, and rarely resisted her efforts. She had the ironic thought sometimes that he was one of the easiest patients she'd worked with in terms of compliance. After reading the Hydra files and knowing the incomprehensible and horrific things that were done to him, the fact that he sat in her office and engaged with her in a meaningful way was beyond astounding. She believed that people could get through anything with the right help, but honestly the Hydra files had tested her beliefs. Bucky's mind should have been shattered beyond repair. He thought he was broken, but she wanted to grab him and say  _no, no you're not._ He was traumatized, yes, but he wasn't broken. He talked to her, and challenged his own thoughts, and worked through things thoughtfully. He trusted, and loved, and cared about others.

And what was most astounding was that  _he got better._ Every week he improved, sentences getting longer and face becoming expressive again. A Brooklyn accent sometimes wound through his words, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He expressed emotions, sadness and anger and joy beginning to be readily visible and felt. They built a close and trusting relationship, and Bucky wasn't afraid to open up to her. He poured his feelings out and she took them readily, so honored to be the one he trusted to hear them. She thought she had never met anyone so brave or genuinely  _good._ Even when he recounted horrific accounts of killing people under Hydra's orders, she never felt anything but sympathy. It was so evident that he didn't want to hurt anyone. He was a six-foot tall supersoldier with a metal arm, but she had never once felt scared of him. She knew for a fact Bucky was more scared of other people than they could possibly be of him. She thought that she had never seen such a big person look so small. 

Her heart bled with every trauma he recalled. Sometimes she wondered if she was doing the right thing in making him remember all the details of these horrific events. A small, terrible part of her whispered that if she had the means, she would make him forget every single one of his memories with Hydra. It was simply more than one person should ever have to bear. But bear it he did. He struggled, and often had panic attacks or dissociated during the accounts. He told her that he had horrific nightmares some nights, and had punched holes in the walls after a few emotional outbursts. Therapy wasn't easy by any means. It broke her heart when he would start shaking and choking and stumbling over his words as he tried to read, face lined with pain. She hated that she put him through that. And he did as well, sometimes. Sometimes he lashed out with biting words in anger, telling her that he hated everything and it wasn't helping and all sorts of negative things. But she was used to patients projecting their anger onto her, and she could admit that the therapy sucked. Especially for Bucky. And eventually he would calm down, and apologize, and keep working. It was amazing that he was so self-aware, and could deliver such heartfelt apologies with an expression on contrition, blue eyes wide like the world's saddest puppy.

There was no doubt that Bucky  _felt._ He wasn't even close to the emotionless and remorseless machine that Hydra had created. She hated the fact that they had tried to erase Bucky, because he was so  _alive._ He had such a personality, and life, and a sense of loyalty and justice. She had started the therapy with the goal of maybe helping the most traumatized person in the world to be able to function again, but she had never counted on actually liking the person she found. She genuinely liked Bucky as a person. He had a dry sense of humor, and a kind and empathetic heart. He was the kind of person who would stand up for you and protect you, as he had with a young Steve Rogers. The history books had been right in that regard. But the history books couldn't even scratch the surface of who Bucky was. Every week she saw Bucky Barnes unfolding from the chrysalis of the Winter Soldier, spreading his wings and taking flight. She could start to imagine him as he was in the 40s, young and vibrant and beautiful. He still was, she thought. Young. For God's sake, he wasn't even thirty. Sometimes she forgot that, forgot that for his ancient eyes and the lines of pain etched into his face, Bucky Barnes was  _so fucking young._

Her thoughts turned back to the current situation. She knew Bucky had bad days and episodes that often culminated in punching holes in walls or dissociating in a corner, but Sam had sounded serious. The fact that he had dissociated for six hours and then broke his own arm was deeply concerning. Bucky hadn't ever dissociated that long, and hadn't hurt himself that she knew since they started therapy. Usually Steve or Sam could draw him out of his episodes and get him to talk a little, but it seemed like he had reverted to his early therapy days of being either angry or shut down. The fact that he wouldn't talk about it at all meant it was something very bad. She knew that occasionally a new memory would surface, usually a horrific one, and it would cause him nightmares and flashbacks. These memories were usually ones Hydra had especially tried to erase, and therefore contained some of the most distressing events. She had heard more details than she ever wanted to hear about what Hydra had done to Bucky. It was her job as a therapist to listen and work through them with him, but sometimes it was hard. She had to make sure she was practicing good self-care or she would get traumatized by Bucky's accounts. She had told herself to toughen up, because while she had a hard time hearing it Bucky had actually lived it, and he needed her to be there for him. Whatever he had remembered last night, she would need to be ready.

***

A soft knock at the door made her look up. Bucky stood in the doorway, looking...rough. He was wearing sweatpants and an oversized sweater, hair hanging in limp strands around his face. Dark circles underlined his eyes, and his expression was blank and dead. His right wrist was splinted, held to his stomach as he hunched his shoulders. She stood up, moving to sit down in her regular chair.

"Hi Bucky, I'm really glad you came in. Thank you." She sat down in her chair, waiting for him to do the same. He did, curling into the corner of the couch and pulling his sweater sleeve further over his splinted wrist. He usually sat up for sessions, and he looked small and vulnerable curled on the couch and drowning in his oversized clothes. He didn't meet her gaze, looking down at his lap.

Kate decided to dive right in and try to feel out what had happened. "So, something triggered you last night?"

He nodded mutely.

"Can you walk me through what happened?"

His voice was flat and hoarse. "Steve touched me. I freaked out and hit him. Then I threw up. Then I dissociated. Then I broke my arm. Then I hit Sam. Then Steve slept and Sam watched me. Then he called you."

Kate leaned forward. It was like he'd reverted to the way he'd been before therapy, all short sentences and flat affect. "Okay, do you hear how that sounded? Like you're reciting facts. You're not connecting to your feelings. Let's start with what triggered you. Steve's touched you before and you've never had this reaction. What was different about this time?"

Bucky chewed his lip. "He came up behind me."

"Okay, so he startled you?"

He shook his head.

"So what exactly did he do that triggered you?"

Bucky just shook his head. It seemed he didn't want to talk about it. Kate tried to find another tact.

"Okay, that's okay. What were you feeling when whatever he did triggered you?"

"Scared?"

"Okay, so you got scared, and hit Steve in self-defense, right?"

He nodded.

"And then you threw up. That's a pretty common reaction to traumatic memories. What were you feeling that made you throw up?"

"Fear. Horror. Shame."

They were getting somewhere at least. "Okay, then walk me through what happened after that."

"Steve came in. I told him to get out."

"Why? What were you feeling?"

"Anger. Shame."

"Okay, then what?"

"I...blanked out. I don't remember."

"You dissociated. What were you feeling right before you dissociated?"

"The same as before," he said evasively.

She narrowed her eyes but didn't press. There was something that Bucky was avoiding, and she just had to find the right way to poke at it. "Sam said you dissociated for six hours. What's the first thing you remember coming out of it?"

"I saw Sam in front of me. He was talking. And then he and Steve were talking in the hallway, and then they came back."

"Okay, you said you broke your arm next. How did that happen?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. He moved his metal hand, miming snapping his flesh wrist with a dead expression.

Kate tried not to react. "I'm not asking how you broke it. I'm asking  _why._ What were you feeling leading up to it?"

"Anger. Shame. Just-" he fell silent.

There was something there, she had hit a sore spot. "Was there a thought that preceded those? Something that made you feel this way?"

"That-that I deserved it. It just-it-" He clamped his mouth shut.

There, something was coming out. Just a few more prods and maybe it would be enough to dislodge it. "What did you deserve?"

He shook his head.

"Okay, why did you deserve it?"

"Because I didn't-I didn't fight back. I didn't say no. I could have-I could have stopped it, but I didn't, and it's just-I-I can't-I can't-" he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his metal hand, breaths uneven. Kate started to have a small niggling suspicion but pushed it down. When he calmed and opened his eyes she continued with her questioning, determined to break through.

"So you had these thoughts, which made you feel angry and ashamed, and that made you break your arm?"

"I-guess. It was just..too much. I needed-"

"Something to control? A focus for your pain?"

He nodded.

"That's normal. But there are healthier ways to do that, you know. So what happened after that?"

"Sam tried to stop me, and I hit him."

"Why did you hit him? Was it reflex or did you think about it?"

He shook his head. "Reflex. He touched me."

"Okay, so that wasn't your fault," she made sure to point out. "What were you feeling after?"

"Anger."

"Just anger?"

"No."

"What were the other emotions you were feeling?"

"No," he repeated. 

Kate didn't miss a beat, sensing it wouldn't help to press. Best to just keep going and hope eventually it would come out. "Okay. I'll just remind you that I can't help you unless you express these feelings. So next, you didn't want to get your arm treated?"

He shrugged. "I guess."

"Why?"

"I just-didn't. I told Sam I was fine. He said I wasn't. He told me I had to get it treated and stay under watch. I said, 'make me.'"

"Why did you tell Sam you were fine?"

He swallowed. "Because-because I couldn't tell him. I couldn't-"

"What couldn't you tell him?"

He shook his head. It was so close, Kate could feel it. The emotions were spilling through the cracks in his facade.

"Okay, how about,  _why_ couldn't you tell him? What were the thoughts you had?"

"That I couldn't tell anyone. That it was-it was-" he swallowed, shaking his head.

The suspicion deepened. "Why couldn't you tell anyone?" she pressed.

It poured out of him in a rush. "Because it's shameful. It's-it's wrong, and-and-and horrible, and humiliating, and-I can't, I'm not supposed to-I can't-I didn't-I didn't do anything-I let it happen, and-I can't-" he broke off, breaths shuddering and shallow. He gripped his thigh with his metal hand, digging the fingers in.

Alarm shot through her at the same time as the suspicion started to take hold. This was bad. Very bad. "Hey, Bucky, can you stop that?" Kate questioned hastily. "I really need you not to hurt yourself, okay? Let those emotions out. I'm not going to judge anything you say, you know that."

He shook his head, face anguished as metal fingers left divots in his leg. "I can't." His voice broke. "I can't." He looked like he was barely holding himself together.

She needed to stop him but she didn't know how without making it worse. "Bucky, if you don't stop hurting yourself I'm going to have to call Steve to sedate you and restrain you. And that's not going to be fun or helpful for your mental state. There's other ways to regain control without hurting yourself, okay? I really need you to let go."

He took several shuddering breaths before slowly relinquishing his grip. 

Kate let out a breath, relief rushing through her. "That's good. Very good. Thank you. Next time you feel like that I want you to do that to the couch instead, okay? Rip it up, destroy it, I don't care. Just direct it anywhere but yourself."

He nodded, looking down as his breaths evened. Kate took a second to breathe as well, steeling herself.

"What were you feeling just now that made you do that?"

"Just...too much."

"Too much of what?" she asked gently.

"Everything. I just-I can't-I don't know what to do," he finished quietly.

_Validate and explore,_  she thought to herself.She could do this. "I hear you. You're feeling like everything's spinning out of control again. But it doesn't have to be. Let's go back to what made you feel this way. You had some strong emotions about why you feel like you can't tell anyone what's going on. I heard the words shameful, wrong, horrible, and humiliating, and the automatic thoughts 'I didn't do anything,' and 'I let it happen.' Let's work through these. What's the evidence for these thoughts?"

"I didn't do anything. I let him-I could have fought back. I could have killed him."

She was getting a terrible, sinking idea of what she thought he remembered, but she wanted to hear it from him. "I'm going without context here, but what would have happened if you fought back against whatever it was?"

He frowned. "It wouldn't have happened."

"But would there have been consequences for fighting back?"

"I-yes. I guess. If I-if I hurt him. But I still didn't-I didn't say no."

"But what would have happened if you said no?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose before opening his mouth, the words tumbling out in a sudden rush of emotion as his voice cracked and shook. "I don't-I don't know. But I should've-I should've done  _something._ I didn't-I didn't do  _anything,_ I just let it happen and I don't even know why I'm so upset because I let it happen, I deserved it, I could've stopped it, it wasn't like he made me-I must've wanted it because I didn't  _do_ anything I just fucking let him do it because I'm so fucking weak, and pathetic, that I didn't even say  _no,_ I just-froze, and I  _let_ him do it-and out of everything Hydra did  _that_ was what actually fucking broke me and sent me insane which is pathetic because it wasn't like he held me down, I let it happen and they burned it out because I went insane and killed everyone but now I can't get it out of my head and I want it gone, I don't want to remember, I don't want-I can't-I can't-" He was trembling all over, breaths coming in sobs and throat closing up.

Kate leaned forward, certain now, although she wished she weren't. She gentled her voice. "Bucky, are you-are you talking about sexual assault?"

And Bucky crumbled. His face twisted and he dissolved into heart-wrenching sobs, curling into the corner of the couch and resting his forehead against his metal hand as tears streamed down his face. His right arm wrapped around his middle as if trying to hold himself together through sheer will. Out of everything that he had gone through in this office, she had never seen him shatter like this.

Kate felt her heart break for him. "Bucky, it's okay. Let those feelings out. I'm here for you. You're okay."

She sat there as he cried, letting him get it out. Finally the tears started to slow, Bucky drawing in hiccuping breaths that gradually evened out as he grew calmer.

"How are you feeling now?" Kate asked softly.

"I don't know," he croaked in reply, wiping his face and dropping his hands to his lap. He looked up at her, face tear-stained and eyes full of pain.

She met his eyes steadily, trying to reflect her understanding and acceptance. "That's okay. I can tell you have a lot of negative thoughts and emotions surrounding this trauma. Sexual assault can be one of the hardest things to deal with. But you can get through this. Can we try and work through this like we have with the others?"

He nodded hesitantly.

Kate sent him a small smile, relieved and proud. "That's really good. You're strong for telling me this. I know sexual assault is hard to talk about, but it's not anything to be ashamed of."

Bucky frowned. "But it is."

Kate cocked her head. "Why do you think so?"

"Because-it just is. Men aren't supposed to-it makes you weak. It's shameful."

Kate shook her head. This was a common thought among male victims today, and she guessed it was even worse because he grew up in the '30s. She hated the stigma that made therapy so much harder for so many people. It was hard to get them to change these negative thoughts when they were constantly being told the same things. She took a breath. "Maybe that's what society has told you, but that's untrue. Men are often victims of sexual assault. I think the statistics right now are about 1 in every 33 men. It doesn't make you weak. It could happen to anyone, no matter how physically strong they are. Remember in our first session, I said there were three responses to a traumatic event: fight, flight, or freeze?"

She waited for him to nod.

"The freeze response is actually the most common with sexual assault. Many people report feeling paralyzed and unable to move or think. You said the words, 'I froze.' That's exactly it. It's also common when trying to fight back will bring more harm to the person. You said before, there would be consequences for fighting back. You were brainwashed and tortured. You were conditioned to do whatever they told you or you would be hurt. This is no different."

"But it wasn't really-" he swallowed-"assault because I didn't say no." She noticed that he couldn't actually say the word, which was a form of avoidance. He obviously had a lot of internalized stigma and issues surrounding sexual assault, which was sadly common.

"But did you say yes?"

"No."

Affirmative consent wasn't really something they had in the '30s and '40s, she supposed. "Consent requires an enthusiastic and explicit yes. A lack of a no is not grounds for consent."

He frowned, looking like he was thinking this over. "But even if it was, I didn't even try to stop it. I could've easily killed him. I don't know-I don't know why I didn't."

"Remember when we talked about learned helplessness? How eventually when you feel you have no control over something your brain just gives up and accepts it, even when an opportunity presents itself? We said this is why you didn't escape when on missions, because you simply didn't even think there was any way out."

He nodded.

"That's exactly what happened here. Every time you fought back against them, they tortured you. So even if you  _could_ fight back, you actually  _couldn't._ You would just accept whatever was happening because you learned that you couldn't do anything to stop it. And did you have the knowledge then that you have now? Did you know that you were a person, and that you had rights?" she pressed.

"No," he admitted grudgingly.

"Did you want it?" She knew he would understand what she was getting at. They had talked about this a lot in his other stuck points.

"I didn't-I didn't have wants."  _A weapon doesn't have wants,_ he had told her.

"Then there you go. You didn't want it, because you weren't even allowed to have wants. You didn't even know you were a person. Free-will and choice were a foreign concept. Fighting back was something you were conditioned not to do. When you put all that together, what does that tell you about what happened?"

"That-that, maybe-maybe it wasn't my fault? I didn't-I didn't have a choice."

Kate smiled. "Yes, that's perfect. Now, how does that new thought make you feel?"

"Less...bad. Like maybe I'm not..weak. Or disgusting. But I still-I still feel ashamed. It's just-wrong. I feel humiliated. And angry."

She nodded. "Those are common reactions to this, and we'll continue to work on them. Because it's such a personal violation and so stigmatized in our society that it can create a lot of shame and humiliation. But once you can really process this and work through it those should fade. And remember, the anger is good as long as it's directed at Hydra, and you don't allow it to control you. I want you to do what we've been doing and write about this for next week as a trauma account. Keep doing those ABC and Challenging Questions worksheets, but also do one of each on the event and find stuck points. Does that sound good?"

He nodded.

"I'm really glad you came in today and opened up to me. If you let this fester it's just going to get worse. It was brave to talk to me about this and really try to work through some of those initial automatic thoughts. Are you going to be able to keep yourself safe?"

He nodded. "Yes." 

She smiled, extremely relieved. She thought it was actually good that he had remembered this after they'd been working in therapy a while, so he was better at correcting those negative thoughts and accepting that things weren't his fault. If he had remembered this before they dealt with anything else she shuddered to think what would have happened. "That's great to hear. And I know Steve and Sam were really worried about you. You don't have to tell them if you don't want to, but it might be a good idea to express some of the emotions you're feeling and let them know that you're just dealing with something big right now. Especially Steve, as he triggered your flashback, right?" She knew they were in a relationship, had been since they were teens. That was probably contributing to a lot of Bucky's negative self-thoughts, as the sexual aspect of their relationship would only trigger him. Many people felt they were dirty or damaged after being sexually assaulted, and even if they didn't many had a hard time engaging in sexual activity again due to the associations. This would be a minefield of making Bucky see that Steve would love him regardless while trying not to get triggered every time they touched.

Bucky nodded.

"He's probably wondering what he did wrong, and this may mean that you don't want to be touched right now. It would be good to express to him, if this is what you want, that contact is a no right now, but it's not about him. You've told him that in the past and he's fine with it." She had to give Steve credit for being an absolutely amazing and supportive person from what Bucky said. He was even going to therapy as well, and was committed to helping Bucky and dealing with things in a healthy manner. Honestly, Captain America. What a guy.

Bucky took a deep breath. "Okay."

Kate felt fierce pride for Bucky. He had come in totally shut down and then fallen apart in front of her, but now he was stable and picking up the pieces. She never ceased to be amazed by his strength and resilience. "Alright, I'll let you go, but remember your assignments for next week. Try to practice some grounding exercises and self-care as much as you can, and utilize your social support." She gave him an serious look. "You're going to get through this."

He nodded, face open. "Thank you." 

_No, thank you,_ she thought.

***

Bucky made his way back down to his floor, feeling calmer and more stable. The frantic, desperate, out of control feeling had faded, replaced by a persistent ache in his chest that was at least manageable. He was actually glad he had told Kate instead of letting it build and build until he inevitably exploded. He supposed that since he'd literally once told her how he ripped someone's spine out she probably couldn't judge him. And she was safe. He could tell her anything and she would only ever be supportive and make him work through it, but there was no tricky emotional connection or relationship like there was with Steve and even Sam. Everything he said to Kate would stay in that room, but if he told Steve or Sam it would forever color their interactions with him. They would see him differently, whereas Kate had seen his worst parts and had nothing to compare him to.

When he stepped through the elevator doors Steve and Sam were in the living room, trying not to look like they were waiting for him. They watched him as he sank down into the corner of the couch opposite Steve, meeting his eyes. Steve looked visibly relieved that he was finally looking at him again.

"How was it?" he asked hesitantly.

"It was okay," Bucky replied. "I'm okay."

"You talked to Kate?" Sam asked.

He nodded. "You were right. I lashed out at you in anger because I didn't know how to cope. I'm sorry."

Sam waved a hand. "I understand, but thanks for the apology."

"And I'm sorry for hitting you." He turned back to Steve. "And you."

Steve gave him a small smile. "You don't have to apologize, Buck. I know you didn't mean to."

"Yeah." He took a deep breath. "Yeah, but uh, no touching for a while."

Steve nodded. "Okay. Whatever you need."

He exhaled. Of course Steve was fine with it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam questioned. "Whatever happened last night?"

He shook his head. "No. I told Kate, but..no."

"Okay, just checking. You don't have to tell us. We're just glad you're alright. Are you gonna be able to keep yourself safe now?"

"Yeah. I'm okay. Or I will be."

"That's great, man. I'm proud of you."

He swallowed, nodding. Steve gave him a soft look, full of warmth and love, that Bucky tried to return but couldn't quite capture. The lingering shame and guilt sat coiled in his chest, threatening to rise up when he looked at Steve. He gave him a quick smile before looking away. 

***

That night he slept in his own room, Steve understanding immediately. They often would sleep apart when he was having a particularly bad day or night and either didn't want to be touched or had nightmares that made him hit Steve. He was glad for it now, as he didn't think he could stand to be pressed up against Steve in the same bed. First, though, he took a shower. Ignoring the small flashes of memory that arose, he stripped and got in, letting the hot water beat down against his clammy skin. He spent minutes just soaping and rinsing and soaping again as if he could scrub away Rumlow's touch from his skin. But no matter what he did, he still felt the ghost of sensation like a chilling trail of shame. Eventually he gave up, stepping out of the shower and drying off. He dressed in black sweatpants and a soft grey t-shirt, toweling his hair dry and leaving it down, where it fell just below his shoulders. It had grown longer in the few months since DC, and was soft and shiny now that he was actually healthy and used conditioner. He thought about getting it trimmed just a little. He was definitely better with his head getting touched now. Leaving that thought for now he clambered into bed, carefully laying on his right side and settling his injured wrist in front of him. But his back felt exposed, tingles working their way up his spine, and he turned onto his back. Finally his lack of sleep caught up with him and he fell into a restless slumber, exhaustion pulling at his limbs.

He jerked awake from a vivid nightmare around three in the morning, trembling and sweating. For a minute he couldn't move, still trapped in the memory, frozen and compliant. Then, bit by bit, movement and feeling returned to his body and he exhaled harshly, breathing ragged. He pressed his left hand to his face, the sensation of the cool metal grounding him. After a minute his breathing and heart rate slowed and he got up, needing to move to reassure himself he could. He wandered out into the kitchen, intending to get a glass of water and maybe a snack. He hadn't really eaten anything the day before and his metabolism demanded copious amounts of calories. He poured a glass of water before hearing the floor creak in the hallway. Turning towards it, he made out the shape of Steve shuffling towards him in the darkness. He took a sip of water as Steve got closer, assessing him with sleep-soft eyes.

"Diner?" he said softly.

Bucky nodded. That was exactly what he needed. "Give me five minutes."

In five minutes he had jammed his feet into sneakers and pulled a long-sleeved shirt over his head, glove secured on his metal hand. The shirt was a gift from Tony, solid blue with Steve's shield emblazoned on the front, and he'd rather cut off his other arm before admit to Tony that he actually loved it. He met Steve in front of the elevator, hair sleep-tangled and floating in his eyes. He sighed in annoyance, trying to brush a strand away from his forehead with a splinted wrist. Steve caught the motion.

"Want me to-" he gestured to Bucky's hair.

Bucky hesitated before nodding and pulling a hairband off his wrist, handing it to Steve. Steve went to move behind him and Bucky flinched, whirling around to face him.

"Uh, can you-from the front?" he asked awkwardly.

Steve blinked, still frozen at Bucky's sharp movement. "Uh, okay. Right. Sure." He stepped forward, bringing his hands up on either side of Bucky's face. He carefully gathered his hair back, the insides of his wrists brushing Bucky's temples before he clumsily tied Bucky's hair in a loose bun. Stepping back, he carefully tucked a short strand of hair behind Bucky's ear, the soft brush of his fingers sending prickles along his skin.

"Good?"

Bucky nodded. 

Another five minutes and they were at the diner, nodding to Nicole as they entered. They made their way to their normal booth in the back, Nicole sliding coffees over a minute later.

"The usual?"

They nodded. Nicole's glance flickered to Bucky's splinted arm and her mouth tightened, but she made no comment. Her eyes moved to his shirt and a small smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Nice shirt."

"Thanks," Bucky replied, the hint of a smirk tugging at his own mouth. Steve rolled his eyes.

They were halfway through their meal when it happened. A young guy had been sitting in the booth opposite them since they walked in, looking slightly drunk. He had been unsubtly checking out Nicole as she waited on them, and it made Bucky's skin crawl and anger settle in his gut. She had just dropped off his check and made to leave when the guy's hand shot out, groping her ass with a leering smile.

"Hey baby, come back here," he slurred. "Where ya goin' so fast?"

Before he knew what he was doing Bucky was out of his seat and across the aisle, looming over the guy as Nicole stumbled back, expression a mix of hurt and anger.

"Touch her again and I break that hand," Bucky snarled.

The guy scoffed, raising his hands. "Chill out, man. It was a compliment. It's not like she didn't want it."

Bucky saw red. His metal arm whirred, glove creaking as his fist clenched, and it took all his self-control not to strangle the guy with it. "Get. Out." he hissed.

"Who do you think you are-" the man's eyes widened as he took in Bucky. "Holy shit, you're the Winter Soldier."

Bucky flinched minutely, grinding his teeth. "My name is Bucky, asshole, but I will still kick your ass six ways to Sunday. I suggest you leave right fucking now." He felt Steve come up next to him and the man's eyes widened even further.

Fear glinted in the man's eyes but he tipped his chin up defiantly, staring at Bucky. "Why, what'll you do to me? Gonna kill me?" he taunted.

Bucky took a deep breath, pushing his anger down. He would  _not_ prove him right. "No," he said calmly. "Worse." He stepped back, looking over at Steve and gesturing with his metal arm. "He'll all yours, pal."

Steve's mouth stretched in a smirk and his eyes burned with righteous fire. Bucky watched as Steve grabbed the guy by his collar and bodily dragged him out of the booth, the man's eyes wide as he sputtered. They disappeared out the door and Bucky exhaled, turning to Nicole.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly. She looked shellshocked, tearing her gaze from where she had watched Steve drag the man out.

She nodded, expression softening. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."

Bucky swallowed. "Of course I did. No one should touch you without your consent." The words swam up and sat heavily in his chest, like a revelation.  _No one should touch you without your consent._

A flash of understanding and sympathy passed Nicole's gaze as she stared at him steadily, eyes soft. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah."

"Plus, that guy was a real asshole," Bucky said, breaking the spell. "He needed a good ass-kicking." Nicole laughed and Bucky joined in a second later, something loosening in his chest.

 


	24. Chapter 24

Tony came bursting in at 9:00 a.m. that morning, as Bucky was trying unsuccessfully to nap on the couch. He jerked upright immediately, dreading whatever bad news Tony brought. But Tony was...smiling? He held a Starkphone in his hand as he sauntered over to the living room, a smug grin on his face.

"Barnes, you're blowing up the internet. I'm so proud. This is about the best thing I've ever seen."

Bucky blinked. "What?" He exchanged a look with Steve, who was sitting in Sam's usual armchair. Steve shrugged with a bewildered expression.

"Do you old men not understand how phones work? Please tell me you knew you were being recorded."

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "Recorded?"

Stark waved his phone. "Yeah, someone took a video and some photos of your little excursion this morning." He grinned manically. "Now the whole world has seen you in that shirt. I win. I knew you liked it."

Bucky rolled his eyes, relaxing. He had known they had attracted attention in the diner and it didn't really bother him. He hadn't said or done anything bad, or killed anyone. For him, it was a success. He held out his metal hand. "Let me see."

Stark obediently handed over his phone, the article already up.

_Bucky Barnes is Back!_

_It's been three months since the events of DC, and this is the first time we've actually seen Bucky Barnes since it was announced he was residing at Stark Tower. Everyone has been wondering: Who is he now? Is he still the Winter Soldier, or is he Bucky Barnes again? What has he been doing all this time? Well, it seems our questions have partially been answered. Barnes was spotted early this morning getting breakfast with Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America. One bystander managed to capture of video of Barnes seemingly defending the honor of a waitress, and photos of he and Captain Rogers enjoying their early meal. Although appearing exhausted and sporting a wrist brace, Barnes has lost none of his wit or charm. As Barnes himself put it, "My name is Bucky, *sshole." Armed with a Brooklyn drawl, Captain America shirt, and an adorable man-bun, Bucky Barnes appears to be recovering well and back to his old self. I think I speak for everyone when I say we're very excited to see Barnes out and about, and wish him a speedy recovery!_

Bucky scrolled back up to halfway through and clicked on the video, frowning. It started just as the guy said, "who do you think you are-"

_"Who do you think you are-Holy shit, you're the Winter Soldier." Only a sliver of the back of his head and side of his face was visible from the camera angle._

_Bucky flinched minutely and his expression tightened. "My name is Bucky, asshole, but I will still kick your ass six ways to Sunday. I suggest you leave right fucking now." Steve stepped forward next to him._

_The man tipped his chin up. "Why, what'll you do to me? Gonna kill me?" he taunted._

_Bucky took a deep breath, expression growing calm. "No," he said. "Worse." He stepped back, looking over at Steve and gesturing with his gloved hand. "He'll all yours, pal."_

_Steve smirked, looking intense. He grabbed the guy by his collar and bodily dragged him out of the booth, the man's eyes wide as he sputtered. They disappeared out the door and Bucky exhaled, turning to the waitress._

_"Are you all right?" he asked softly, expression concerned. She looked shellshocked, tearing her gaze from where she had watched Steve drag the man out._

_She nodded, only the back of her head visible. "Thank you. You didn't have to do that."_

_Bucky visibly swallowed. "Of course I did. No one should touch you without your consent."_

_"Yeah," the waitress replied. "Yeah."_

_"Plus, that guy was a real asshole," Bucky said. "He needed a good ass-kicking." The waitress laughed and Bucky joined her a second later, eyes crinkling._

_"What is, uh-Captain Rogers going to do to him?" the waitress asked._

_Bucky smirked. "Give him his best 'Captain America is disappointed in you' face probably. Ain't nobody who can stand up to that face." He looked fond. "Probably some speech about being respectful to women, and maybe a kick in the rear for good measure. I doubt that guy's gonna come within a hundred yards of this place again."_

_Steve returned, making a large loop around Bucky to stand beside him._

_"You all right?" he asked the waitress._

_She nodded. "Thank you."_

_Bucky turned to Steve. "You kick his ass?"_

_"Of course not. I'd never hurt civilians," Steve said, affronted. Bucky raised an eyebrow. Steve rolled his eyes. "I just told him off, said never to come here again. He ran pretty quickly."_

_Bucky shot the waitress a dry look. "See, I told you." The waitresses' shoulders visibly shook with quiet laughter. Steve just looked bewildered._

_"Well, uh, thank you, Captain Rogers," the waitress said awkwardly. "You didn't have to do that."_

_"Call me Steve," Steve replied. "And it was no trouble at all. What that guy did was unacceptable."_

_The waitress nodded. "Well thank you again Steve. And Bucky. I knew there was a reason you guys are my favorite customers."_

_Bucky and Steve chuckled simultaneously. "Well you're our favorite waitress, ma'm," Steve replied seriously._

_There was a beat of flustered silence and then, "thank you. Well, I should be getting back to work, but thanks again. Let me know if you need anything. Coffee is on the house."_

_Steve and Bucky nodded and the waitress turned to leave, disappearing out of frame. The camera tracked them as they sat down and then cut off._

Bucky scrolled past the video and found the photos taken. In them, Bucky was clear in the center, with the side of Steve's face just visible on the left. They had captured different moments during their meal, with Bucky eating and sipping coffee and talking with Steve. In one, he was laughing openly, mouth stretched in a wide smile and eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked...happy, despite the prominent dark circles under his eyes, splinted wrist, gloved left hand, messy hair, and rumpled clothes. Or maybe happy wasn't quite the right word, but he looked...okay. Stable. Safe. Nothing like a legendary assassin with his sweatpants, Captain America shirt, and hair in a bun. He looked almost normal.

Bucky passed the phone to Steve, chewing his lip. "Blowing up the internet?" he directed at Stark.

Stark nodded. "Yeah, you're trending on twitter. Hashtag 'BuckyisBack' and 'MynameisBucky.' I think it's great, actually. This is good press. Give the public something to talk about other than...you know. Show the world that you're de-brainwashed and all warm and fuzzy now. I mean, you really are just adorable. I love that man-bun. You can really pull it off. And the shirt, of course. I expect a thank-you. What's better than the ex-Winter Soldier wearing a Captain America shirt? Shows which team you're playing for now."

"I'm pretty sure they still don't know which team I'm playing for," Bucky said dryly.

Stark stared a moment before choking on a laugh. "Was that a joke? A gay joke? Oh my god, this is amazing."

Bucky cracked a reluctant smile.

***

Two days later he had a new Starkphone to monitor the internet and an appointment with Tony and Bruce to start working on replacing his metal arm. He was just getting the hang of using the phone, and he found the internet simultaneously wonderful and terrifying. His only two contacts were Steve and Sam, and he found that he loved texting. It was so much easier than having to speak aloud, and he could spend a long time crafting exactly what he wanted to say instead of stumbling over his words. Sam had also showed him emojis, to the exasperation of Steve. He took pride in sending an incomprehensible string of emojis to Steve and watching him try to figure out what they meant.

In regards to the arm, he had decided that it was time. He was ready to remove the horrifying and painful arm Hydra had given him and accept a far better one that would actually be his choice. This way, he could finally get off the pain meds and actually be able to use his arm. Right now he was limited to lower arm movements so as not to tear or strain his shoulder, and it was frustrating. Tony had already made a replacement arm, but they were going to take some final measurements to make sure they could attach it properly. There was something about synthetic muscle fibers and nerve attachments that Tony had rambled about.

Bucky made his way down to the lab alone, Steve on a run with Sam. He had offered to be with Bucky during the appointment, but Bucky had declined. For some reason he just didn't want Steve to hear or see anything about his arm. Maybe it was the guilty expression that would pass over his face, or the pity and horror Bucky saw in his eyes. Either way, Tony's blasé attitude set him at ease and didn't cause the rush of tangled emotion like Steve did. Sometimes it was just too hard to be around Steve because of their closeness, because of their shared history.

When he entered the lab there was some sort of music playing in the background, Tony humming along as he fiddled at something with a screwdriver and Bruce reading scrolling lines of holographic information. They looked up when Bucky entered, Tony setting down his screwdriver.

"Manchurian Candidate! Come in, come in. We've been expecting you."

Bucky cautiously entered the lab, Bruce giving him a warm smile.

"Hello James, how are you?" he questioned.

"Uh, okay. Do you want me to-" he gestured vaguely.

Tony pulled up a stool next to a table littered with tools, patting the seat. "Have a seat." He rubbed his hands together. "I've been dying to get my hands on that arm. Of course, if that's okay with you?"

Bucky, nodded, moving forwards and taking a seat on the stool. He fidgeted nervously, trying to ignore the array of tools. Tony wheeled his own stool closer while Bruce approached slowly.

"Okay, so we want to get a better look at the arm and explain how we're going to attach the new one. Sound good?" Tony asked. Bucky nodded. "Great. You'll need to take your shirt off so we can see it better."

Bucky scowled before removing his shirt, feeling exposed and uncomfortable. He tried to quell the feeling of similarity to Hydra maintenance.

Tony didn't even blink at the scar tissue. "Reminds me of myself," he said wryly, tapping a hand on his chest. Bucky cocked his head questioningly. "Oh, I guess you don't know," he said, looking surprised. Yeah, got blown up and captured, they put this thing in my chest to keep the shrapnel from reaching my heart. Got it out only a little while before the whole DC thing. So I get the whole-" he waved a hand-"non-consensual implantation of robotics in your body. We should start a club."

Bucky blinked, taken aback. He had had no idea. Strangely, it made him feel better. "Sorry," he said ineffectually. Sorry for not asking. Sorry that anyone else had gone through something similar to him. Sorry for all the pain he'd caused Stark.

Tony waved a hand. "It's all good now, finally got it out. Now we can do the same for you, or at least replace this hunk of metal with an actual good design. I mean seriously, who designed this? It's terrible. I mean, it was the 1940s but still. Ten-year-old me could have done better."

"Zola," Bucky said. 

"Ah. Right." He picked up some sort of screwdriver thing. "Okay, are you good for me to-" he waved it-" poke around in there? We have the scans, but there's nothing like actually seeing it. I want to make sure there's not anything we missed."

Bucky nodded, tensing in anticipation. Bruce cleared his throat from where he was standing near the table, tablet in hand. "If at any point you want us to stop, just say so. We won't do anything you don't want, okay?"

He nodded again. Tony rolled forwards on his stool, starting to open up the panels on the bicep. He chattered as he worked, narrating what he was doing and comparing what he saw with Jarvis's scans that Bruce was looking at. Bucky tried to relax, listening to Tony's voice to keep himself grounded. The comfortable stool, quiet rock music in the background, and cheerful chatter of Tony were so vastly different from Hydra that it helped to ease his anxiety. He practiced breathing evenly and staying present like Kate had taught him, reminding himself that he was safe.

"Okay, I want to see how your nerves are connected," Tony was saying. "What do you feel from the arm?"

"Uh, just pressure. Touch."

"No temperature, pain, anything?"

He shook his head.

"Huh. Okay. Let's see how sensitive it is." He grabbed his metal hand and pressed down on the palm. "You feel that?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"What about this?" He barely brushed his fingers across it. Bucky nodded. "Okay, good. Does it feel different? Like, lighter? Or is it the same?"

Bucky frowned. "Different. It's-lighter."

Tony nodded. "Alright, that's good at least. It looks like there's sensors in the shoulder that connect to your muscles and nerves; those are what allow you to control the arm and feel touch. We can improve on those and possibly implant a few in your spinal column. This should give you both more dexterity in the arm and to feel things like temperature. Would you like that?"

He nodded, eyes widening. He hadn't even known that was possible. "Yes. Definitely."

Tony smiled. "Great. Jarvis, jot that down. Alright, we've gone through the rest of the arm, let's take a look at that shoulder." He started prying the plates off of the shoulder, exposing the smooth metal beneath and the heavy joint that fit into it. He poked and prodded, muttering to himself under his breath.

"Huh, these wires are strange, I wonder what-" Bucky felt him pull on one moments before burning pain shot through his shoulder.

He went stiff, eyes widening in panic but body frozen. He gritted his teeth and took fast, shallow breaths through his nose, mind white and staticky with pain. Tony seemed to notice his reaction, quickly rolling his chair backwards and holding up his hands.

"Whoa, just me. You're okay."

_No, I'm not,_ Bucky thought. He needed Tony to fix it, not back away. But he couldn't get his mouth to work, body immobilized with pain.

"James, what's wrong?" Bruce questioned worriedly.

Bucky gritted his teeth, trying to force the words out through the pain. "Fucking. Fix. It."

Tony's brow furrowed. "Wait, what?"

"The. Arm. Hurts. Fix. It." he gasped.

Tony's eyes went wide and he cautiously rolled forward, hands still raised. "Okay, don't hit me. I'm going to try and figure out what I did. Jarvis, anything?"

"Sergeant Barnes appears to be in a considerable amount of pain."

"You. Think." Bucky ground out.

"The origin appears to be a wire that you accidentally pulled out, Sir."

"Ah," Tony said. "Shit." He delved back into the shoulder, Bucky beginning to tremble and sweat with the pain. Suddenly it disappeared, and he slumped with an audible exhale.

"Don't move," Tony instructed. "I'm holding this wire in place but if you move it's going to come apart again. Bruce, electrical tape?"

Bruce jogged over, tearing off a strip and reaching his hands in next to Tony's. After a minute of careful maneuvering and many more pieces of tape they cautiously withdrew their hands, looking at Bucky. 

"Good?" Tony asked.

Bucky nodded in relief. "Yeah," he croaked. "Thanks."

"No need to thank me, I'm the one who pulled the wire in the first place," Tony said. He winced. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine."

"Well, that's another reason we need to get you a new arm, fast. That wire is so corroded that it just broke the moment I pulled on it even a little. And if it causes that much pain then that's a problem." Tony's brow creased. "Actually, why does it? That makes no sense. This arm shouldn't be connected to nerves for pain. I noticed that group of wires because they don't make any sense in relation to the arm." He squinted closer, carefully prodding the wires. "And there's this weird receiver thing, I'm not sure why they're-oh." He sat back, face pale. "Oh."

Bucky frowned. "What?"

Tony looked awkward. "You uh, you don't know?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Know what?"

Tony scratched his head. "Well, it looks like they, well, tried to, uh, put something in to, you know..." He sighed. "It looks like they  _tried_ to make these wires able to cause you pain, and there's a receiver box for some sort of wireless signal. Put it together and...." He put his hands together. "But I don't think they were able to make it work. It looks unfinished, but there's still the wires attached to your nerves and when I disconnected one..."

"Oh." He didn't remember that. They must have wanted a way to hurt him from afar but for some reason never finished. Maybe because they had developed the chair or some other way of controlling him and didn't need it. It was the least of what Hydra had done to him. He shrugged. "I don't think they ever used it. I don't remember it, at least."

Tony cleared his throat. "Well that's...good. I guess. Anyway, I don't trust that the electrical tape will hold forever so we should probably get this arm off you soon. And who knows what else they put in here. A lot of these wires are corroded. A lot of wear and tear, and it doesn't look like they've updated everything. Some of this is original equipment."

Bucky nodded. "They just repaired it when it got damaged."

"Sounds about right. Okay, I'd say I'm done with my mechanical assessment, but Bruce needs to check out the bio component. See how we can attach the new arm to you without causing the damage that this one does."

Bucky nodded. Bruce moved forward, standing as he peered at Bucky's scarred shoulder. "Is it alright if I touch it? I want to see how much feeling you have here, and where it hurts."

Bucky nodded again. Bruce carefully extended a hand, probing at the seam between metal and flesh. "Can you feel this?"

"Kind of."

"Does it hurt when I press?"

"A little."

Bruce moved along the length of the scar, pressing and asking. Most of it had no feeling, the nerves deadened by scar tissue. Sometimes there was a prickling sensation, and a faint ache at the pressure. Bucky tried to breathe normally during the assessment but remained tense and nervous, heart racing and skin twitching. Bruce paused along the four narrow scars that extended from the ridge, looking perplexed.

"This doesn't look like the normal pattern of scarring, and none of our scans show any surgery that would make these. Do you know what happened here?"

Bucky swallowed and nodded. Slowly, he raised his right hand, fitting his fingers to the scars and dragging them outwards. Bruce's eyes widened and he looked slightly ill.

"Oh," he said. "Right." He swallowed before moving on as if nothing had happened. Bucky appreciated it. When Bruce moved to his back he had to dig his right hand into his thigh, taking steadying breaths. Every time Bruce touched him he flinched slightly, his body thrumming with tension. Bruce pressed at a spot right below his shoulder blade, voice right behind Bucky in a way that sent panic coursing through his body. "Here?"

Bucky was too panicky to respond, throat closed up and body trembling slightly. He attempted to breathe evenly but it came out more like a shuddering gasp. He felt Bruce take his hand away and back up.

"James?"

"Hey, Barnes, you alright?" Tony asked. "We can take a break."

He attempted to scowl but couldn't because he was trying to breathe. He hated the fact that he couldn't even make it through this.  _It's okay,_ Kate's voice said.  _You're recovering._ Finally he nodded, not looking at Tony.

Bruce came around to face him, sounding apologetic. "I'm sorry. Take as long as you need."

Bucky nodded again as he looked down, trying to regulate his breathing. When he had it under control he looked askance at Bruce, trying to form words.  _Communicate your needs,_ Kate had said. "Can you, uh, can you not-stand behind me?" he rasped.

Bruce blinked. "Of course. If I stand to the side, is that okay?"

Bucky nodded, relieved at how easy that had been. 

"Okay. Just tell me when you're good to keep going."

"I'm good." Bucky straightened in the chair, releasing his death grip on his thigh. Bruce moved closer cautiously, standing next to his metal shoulder. He reached out, gently continuing his assessment. 

"Okay?"

Bucky nodded. "Yeah."

Bruce finished his assessment quickly, Tony jotting down notes and Jarvis incorporating the information into his data. Then Tony resealed the arm, making sure everything was secure.

"We'll need to look over our notes and adjust a few things but we should be able to take this off and put a new one on soon," Bruce said kindly. "We'll let you know when we're all set and we can make an appointment for surgery. Sound good?"

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. Thank you. You didn't have to do this for me."

"No need to thank me, Tin Man," Tony said. "That arm is an affront to engineering."

"Tony," Bruce admonished.

"What? It's true. Listen, I get to design you a whole new arm. It's a dream come true. Ooh, do you want any nifty upgrades? Like, say, miniature rocket launchers? Little tool things? I don't know, spikes? I could literally do anything. The possibilities are endless." He rubbed his hands together.

"Uh, just an arm is fine," Bucky said. 

Tony pouted. "Fine. Jarvis, scratch the rocket launchers. Anyway, you're free to go. Have fun...brushing your hair, or whatever it is you do all day."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Right."

"Ignore him. I'll see you soon, James," said Bruce.

He nodded. "Thanks again."

***

His appointment on Thursday was grueling but rewarding. He had been forced to recount his chosen index trauma that he had written and re-read throughout the week, and it was the hardest one yet. It took him almost an hour to get through it, barely able to make himself speak. Multiple times he had told Kate that he couldn't, that it was too hard to read. But she pushed him, and eventually the whole horrible account spilled from his lips. Then she had kept pressing him on his negative thoughts, and he left feeling thoroughly wrung out. She made him promise to practice self-care after such an emotional upheaval, so now he was curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and  _The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy,_ Koshka purring on his lap. Steve was sketching on the other end of the couch, Bucky pretending he didn't know Steve was drawing him. It was peaceful, making the raging storm inside Bucky quiet for just a moment and reminding him that he was safe. Rumlow couldn't touch him here. Steve was mere feet away, safe and whole and in love with Bucky. He had a cat on his lap, a warm ball of fluff and gentleness. He was comfortable, and warm, and utterly content. All was right in his small little world, in this small moment in time.

Bucky set the book down next to him and pulled out his phone with his free hand, taking a picture of his metal hand holding the mug of tea over Koshka on his lap, the book cover visible next to his leg. It was something Kate had suggested, to take a picture whenever he felt happy so he could look back on it later. On impulse, he also took a stealthy picture of Steve as he sketched. Small lines marred the corners of his eyes, forehead wrinkled and lips pursed in concentration. It made a feeling of fondness suffuse Bucky and he smiled slightly as he studied his picture. His legs and Koshka's fur were just visible in the bottom of the picture, Steve's form across from him on the couch. It painted a picture of domesticity, and suddenly he felt a pang of longing and sorrow for what their lives could have been. He could picture it, he and Steve in Brooklyn, a smaller Steve sketching while Bucky reclined, smoking cigarettes and reading the latest pulp novel. He would have worked at the docks, or something, maybe engineering if he could afford college. Steve would have drawn commissions for a living like he always had, and they would live in a small one-room apartment that was ratty and run-down. But they would be happy. God, they would have been happy.

Now they were here, in the future. And Bucky should be glad, because they still were together. That was really all they needed. As long as they had each other, they didn't need a single goddamned thing else. But it wasn't the same. Bucky couldn't even let Steve touch him the way they used to, was so damaged and broken that he might never be able to completely give himself to him again. And he knew Steve didn't care, knew this was just a stuck point that he needed to change, but it was so goddamned  _unfair._ He didn't care if Steve didn't care.  _He_ cared.  _He_ wanted to be able to touch Steve, to have a normal relationship. He just wanted everything to be  _okay._ He wanted the mundane, perfect life with Steve that they had always thought they would get, where Steve drew and snarked and Bucky gave it right back and protected him and they loved each other with reckless abandon. He'd never asked for any of this shit, not any of the Hydra fuckery or science experiments, or war, or brainwashing, not any of it. If Bucky Barnes had had his way, he would be living in a tiny apartment with the tiny love of his life instead of here in the future with a head full of horrors and a body to match.

But that wasn't what Steve had wanted, he realized. Steve had wanted more from life, had had a fire burning inside him that couldn't be quenched. And so Bucky...Bucky had followed Steve, because what else could he do? He would follow Steve to the ends of the earth, or through time itself, it seemed. Because Bucky Barnes' life had always revolved around Steve Rogers. Steve was like the sun, fiery and bright; pulling Bucky in inevitably, inexorably until he was almost consumed by him. Goddamn, Bucky thought. He had thought that Hydra had changed him, but it turned out that the old Bucky Barnes was eerily similar. He had never loved himself, had never thought of his own happiness. It was Steve he loved, loved so much that he forgot how much he hated himself, and Steve he would burn the world for if it would keep him safe and happy. He had always been the one doing the dirty work, from illegal dealings to get Steve medicine in Brooklyn to doing the unseen, bloody things in the war that Captain America couldn't do. He had always been morally grey, concerned only with protecting Steve. No wonder Hydra had been able to make him into the Soldier. They had taken all the violence and ruthlessness that allowed Bucky to protect Steve and stripped away the noble cause, the righteous guiding light for his actions, leaving only death and destruction. Bucky was the Winter Soldier and the Winter Soldier was Bucky. The only difference was what they fought for. The Winter Soldier fought for Hydra because he was conditioned to, because it was all he knew. Bucky fought for Steve because he loved him with every inch of his soul, because Steve was all he knew. 

Kate would tell him that that was extremely unhealthy and well, Bucky couldn't really refute that. He thought that, ironically, he was actually doing better now. He had regained his sense of self all on his own, was actually putting himself first in some regards, and had some healthy coping strategies. He and Steve's relationship was actually healthy, with both sides communicating and expressing their own desires. Unlike in Brooklyn, now Steve was the one protecting Bucky. Sure, Bucky still tried to protect Steve every chance he got, but the fact was that he couldn't anymore. He couldn't protect Steve from all the dangers of the world, and was too fucked-up and damaged to really support him. Steve was the strong one now, both mentally and physically. And instead of hurting himself to help Bucky, like Bucky had done in the past, he was also taking care of himself. He was going to therapy, and Sam was a steady presence by his side. He was able to help Bucky because he had already helped himself, and part of Bucky resented him for that. Steve was happy, and healthy, and whole. He was like a rock, strong and steady and unmoved by the current. Bucky looked so broken next to him, just a pile of anxiety and trauma and issues that Steve bore with insufferable patience and understanding.

A dark part of Bucky wanted Steve to be tiny and weak again just so he could be the protector. He could admit to himself that he loved playing that role, that he had enjoyed being the strong, put-together, charming one who fought all of Steve's battles for him. He could admit that when Steve had found him in Austria, part of him had been devastated by Steve's new body and acclaim. He should've been happy, that Steve would never be sick again, that he had finally gotten the praise and admiration he deserved, but he wasn't. Selfishly, he wanted Steve for himself.  _I'm invisible,_ he had said.  _I'm turning into you. It's like a horrible dream._ He had said it jokingly, but it had struck home. Bucky Barnes was selfish. Bucky Barnes was jealous. And now, the tables had been turned even more. At least in the war he had had Steve's back, had still been an expert sniper who could protect Steve with his skill. But now...there was nothing he could do. He was just stuck in this tower day after day, doing mundane things and trying to heal his fractured brain. Steve was the one taking care of him, and he didn't need any protection. Bucky felt almost purposeless. Of course, Kate would say it was a good thing. That he needed to find himself before worrying about Steve. That his whole life couldn't revolve around Steve. He knew that, logically, but it still hurt.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Steve interrupted his spiraling.

He blinked, refocusing on Steve's face. How long had he been sitting here, staring into space? Too long, it seemed. He managed a small smile, shaking his head. "It's nothing."

Steve studied him. "Are you worried about the surgery?"

Sure. He could pretend that was it. He was worried about that. He shrugged. "Stark's vetting surgeons."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. We won't let anything bad happen to you."

Bucky nodded, worrying at his lip. "I know. It's just...a new arm. It's a lot."

Steve nodded sagely. "Yeah Buck, I know. It's okay to be scared. But this time won't be like...last time. It's your choice. And this arm won't hurt you."

"Yeah," he replied. He knew that, and he wanted this, but it still made him anxious. He had told Kate about getting a new arm, and she was happy for him, but she had said it was okay to be nervous. She'd asked him to keep her updated and tell her when the surgery was happening and she would be available by the phone should he need her. He was extremely grateful to her. Speaking of therapy....he recalled the session, and how they were working through his sexual assault. He wanted to be fucking over it. He wanted to be able to touch Steve. Kate said the more he exposed himself to the trauma and recalled it safely, the better he would get. Maybe he just needed to bite the bullet and make himself touch Steve. There wasn't anything to be afraid of; Steve would never do anything he didn't want. His fears were ridiculous and irrational. 

Setting his tea down and gently extricating himself from under Koshka, he got up and approached Steve on the other end of the couch. Steve just watched him with worried eyes, not moving. Bucky was seized with a furious drive to just  _do this, get it over with._ He grabbed Steve's shirt, pulling him upright and manhandling him across the room until he slammed Steve's back against the wall.

"Uh, Buck, what-?"

"Shut up," he said, pressing his lips to Steve's. The feeling of being in control helped, and he grabbed Steve's wrists, pinning them to the wall on either side of his head. Steve made a soft murmur against his lips but didn't resist, pliant and unmoving. Bucky suddenly felt a stab of horror at the thought and released Steve's wrists like they burned, moving his hands to Steve's sides as he continued to kiss him. Steve kissed back, sending a thrill of pleasure through Bucky. Maybe he could do this. But as he released the kiss for a second to breathe, Steve's panting breaths fanned across his neck and he shuddered. He ignored it, surging forward to kiss Steve again. His body pressed to Steve and it was  _too close, too close, too much get away get away no no no_ and he felt Steve's arousal and nausea rose in his throat and he pulled away, resting his forehead on Steve's shoulder.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck."

Steve breathed heavily under him, not moving. "Buck?" he questioned softly, an undercurrent of bewilderment in his voice.

A shudder ran through Bucky's body again, every cell screaming in revulsion at the closeness. He tried to breathe evenly through his mouth so he couldn't smell Steve, but his breaths kept coming out choked.

"Buck?" Steve repeated. His hands came down to gently rest on Bucky's back and he flinched backwards out of his hold, suddenly furious.

"Goddamnit!" he yelled, swinging his metal arm and punching the wall next to Steve. Steve, to his credit, didn't even flinch, staring at Bucky with wide eyes. Bucky looked away, unable to look at him. He backed away slowly, breathing heavily. When he reached the edge of the hallway he paused, still looking down.

"Sorry," he choked out, before turning and darting to his room, slamming the door behind him.

  


	25. Chapter 25

Bucky curled into the corner of his room, angry and ashamed.  _Fuck._ That hadn't gone well at all. After a minute wallowing he grabbed his therapy folder, taking out an Challenging Questions ABC worksheet and a pencil as he heard Steve leave the apartment.

 

A-B-C Worksheet Date: ___________ Patient: ____________________________

 

A Activating Event "Something happens"                            D Challenging Questions                                                            E New Belief

_I tried to kiss Steve and freaked out_                               Evidence for the stuck point?                                What can I tell myself in the future   

_I freaked out even though I knew I was safe.                   I'm recovering and it will take time_

                                                      Evidence against the stuck point?

_It's only been a week. I've gotten better at other things before. The trauma wasn't my fault and is hard to recover from._

B Belief/Stuck Point                                              Is the stuck point not including all the information?

"I tell myself something"                              _I've gotten better at reading my account, and other things are better._

_I'm never going to get over this._                                Is the stuck point extreme or exaggerated?

_I'm weak for not being able to touch Steve.          Yes. This doesn't mean I'll be like this forever or I'm completely broken._

_I'm damaged because of my trauma._ Is the stuck point based on feelings rather than all the facts?

C Consequence                                                  _Yes, I just want to be able to touch Steve and I'm frustrated._             F New Consequence

How does the stuck point make me feel?                                                                                                   How does the new belief make me feel?

_Ashamed. Frustrated.                                                                                                                                                          Hopeful_

 

Bucky released a breath after writing, feeling moderately better but now just embarrassed by the whole situation. He had just fucking grabbed Steve and started making out with him, no warning or questions asked. He was no better than... _no. He wasn't that bad. He would have stopped if Steve didn't want it._ He would apologize to Steve for not asking if it was okay. He couldn't believe he had just done that. The thought of facing Steve after that made his cheeks heat in embarrassment.  _Get a grip, Barnes,_ he told himself. Steve and he had had their share of awkward kisses and sexual situations back in the day. This was no different. 

Feeling more stable, he exited his room and started cooking dinner to try and relieve some of the nervous tension. Steve was probably with Sam, utterly confused by Bucky's actions. He felt a pang of guilt. Steve didn't deserve this. Maybe....maybe he should tell him. The thought made him freeze, one hand holding a pot.  _No._ But then again....why not? Steve probably...definitely wouldn't judge him. Kate always said communication was key. If he told him, maybe he wouldn't end up in these awkward situations with Steve and leave Steve confused and hurt. Steve would understand why he was acting so weird, and would make sure to work around Bucky's triggers and help him. But the thought of telling him was terrifying and humiliating. He couldn't. But he wanted to. But he couldn't. Bucky threw himself back into his cooking, thoughts warring in his head.

***

Sam's phone buzzed and he looked at it, brow creasing. 

_Steve: I think I fucked up. Can I come to your floor?_

Sam hastily typed a reply.

_Of course._

Within two minutes Steve was stepping into his apartment, face a mask of confusion and worry. Sam was ready with two cups of coffee, moving to the living room and sitting Steve down on the couch.

"Okay, spill," he said.

Steve swallowed. "I don't even know what happened. One minute we were just sitting, talking, the next...." He blushed. "Bucky, uh, just grabbed me and, uh, kissed me."

"Okayyy," Sam said. "And that's a problem why?"

"Well, uh, we were kissing, and, I mean, it was...intense-"

"Steve, I'm not a blushing virgin," Sam interrupted. "Stop being so awkward."

Steve just blushed harder. "Sorry. Well, we've never really kissed like that. Bucky was being kinda..aggressive. Slammed me into the wall and kinda just attacked me. I mean, not that I minded. But he didn't really seem...okay. Like, he was shaking the whole time. And then he stopped, and swore, and wouldn't answer me, and when I touched his back to try and get his attention he kinda freaked out, swore again, and punched the wall before disappearing into his room." Steve ran a hand through his hair. "I have no idea what happened. I'm just so confused."

Sam swallowed, feeling a horrible, niggling idea take root in his mind. He tried to make his voice gentle. "Steve, we already know Hydra tortured him physically and mentally. It's not a stretch to say..." he inclined his head. "It's not a stretch to say they did the third form of torture as well."

Steve's brow furrowed. "Third form of torture? What does that mean?"

Sam swallowed again. "There's three main types of torture. Physical, psychological, and sexual."

He saw the instant it registered, Steve's eyes going wide with shock and horror. "Oh god," he said. "No."

"Steve, he wouldn't talk about whatever made him dissociate last week, even after therapy. He usually at least gives us a clue. And now he's back to not wanting to be touched. He obviously remembered something bad that he doesn't want to talk about, and that's a plausible explanation given what just happened."

Steve looked devastated. "Why wouldn't he tell me, though?"

"Think about it, Steve. That sort of thing brings a lot of shame and humiliation with it. Would you tell anyone?"

Steve was silent for a moment. "No, probably not. But how can we be sure that's what's bothering him if he won't talk about it? I don't know if anything I'm doing is making it worse."

Sam shrugged. "You'll just have to trust that he'll let you know, and that he told his therapist. All you can do is be there for him and make sure he knows he can tell you anything. If he wants to tell you, just listen. But don't press. And tou didn't do anything wrong with what just happened. It looks like he was trying to get over something, but he couldn't do it. It wasn't about you. Although you may want to remind him about boundaries and consent. I don't like that he just grabbed you without asking. If I'm right about what it was about, he may have some serious issues with consent and unhealthy ideas about what's okay. I know your priority is Bucky, but remember you can't sacrifice your own happiness or autonomy for that. He needs to respect your boundaries just as you respect his. That's what a healthy relationship is."

Steve nodded. "Yeah, I understand. Thank you, Sam. You wanna head down for dinner? I left Bucky in his room, too, and I'm kinda worried about him."

"Not a problem, man," Sam said. "And just so you know, right now, he may feel more comfortable talking to me than you. The fact that you guys are in a relationship and certain things are expected there is probably pretty upsetting to him. I know you personally don't expect anything, it's not your fault, but he probably feels frustrated and ashamed that he can't do normal relationship stuff like you did before. There's just a lot of issues there to unpack. You get me?"

Steve nodded again, sighing. "Yeah, that makes sense. It's just hard. I want to help him, but I don't know how."

"That's not your job, Steve," Sam replied. "Bucky is strong, and he's got a kick-ass therapist. He's gonna be okay."

Steve clapped him on the shoulder. "I know. I don't know what I would do without you, Sam."

Sam grinned. "Do stupid shit, probably."

Steve laughed. "Honestly, you're not wrong."

***

When they got to Steve's floor, Bucky was in the middle of cooking dinner. He turned around at their entrance, looking extremely awkward as he glanced towards Steve. Steve looked just as awkward, and the air filled with tension as they just stood there. Finally Bucky broke the silence.

"I'm sorry, Steve. I shouldn't have done that."

Sam saw Steve blink in surprise. "It's fine, Buck."

Bucky shook his head. "No, I should have asked you first. You didn't say yes. I'm sorry."

_Way to go,_ Sam thought. It seemed Bucky  _did_ have a good grasp of consent. That was very relieving.

Steve nodded awkwardly. "Thanks, Buck. It's okay. I didn't really...mind." And now he was blushing again.

Bucky's mouth tightened and he abruptly turned back to his cooking. "Food's almost ready."

Steve and Sam exchanged a glance before moving towards the kitchen. Sam cautiously approached Bucky, seeing the pasta cooking on the stove and garlic bread in the oven. He silently set the table and got out the sauce and parmesan cheese, warming up the sauce before bringing it to the kitchen counter. When the pasta was done Bucky expertly drained it and tossed it with olive oil, garlic, pepper, basil, and sauce as Sam removed the garlic bread from the oven. They set the dishes down, taking their seats as Steve served himself a heaping portion of spaghetti.

The spaghetti was hot and filling, perfectly done and flavored. If there was one thing Sam was beginning to appreciate, it was Bucky's cooking skills. Halfway through, Steve cleared his throat, looking over at Bucky.  _Oh, here we go,_ Sam thought. 

"Do you, uh, want to talk about-"

"Nope," Bucky cut him off. 

"Okay," Steve said.

There was a beat of silence.

Steve opened his mouth. "But, you know, if you ever want to-" 

"Nope."

There was another awkward pause as Steve poked at his spaghetti and Bucky shoveled it in like it would prevent Steve from talking to him.

"So," Sam started, fishing for a topic. "How you feelin' about that arm, Barnes?"

Bucky shrugged, looking relieved at the change of topic. "Okay. I'll be glad to get this one off."

Sam winced. "I bet. 

***

Two days later Sam was sitting in Steve and Bucky's floor watching a movie when Jarvis's voice echoed though the room.

"Captain Rogers, Senior Airman Wilson, my sensors have identified an armed individual approaching the tower. Mr. Stark recommends you suit up and join him downstairs."

Sam was on his feet in a flash, Steve doing the same. Bucky looked anxious, metal fist clenched and whirring audibly.

"We'll be there in two," Steve said brusquely, all business. He turned to Bucky. "Stay here."

Bucky scowled. "Seriously?"

Steve raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, but you know it's too dangerous. They might be here for you."

Sam could tell Bucky resented this, but he finally sighed with a muttered, "fine. Be safe."

Steve gave him a cocky salute. "Alright, Sam, let's go."

Within two minutes they were suited up and descending in the elevator. They met Stark in the lobby of the tower, in full Iron Man gear as he cleared everyone out. The man was approaching, an 'x' drawn across his chest plate and mask resembling a skull. With an armored fist, he smashed through the glass doors to the tower, civilians shrieking as they fled the scene. Steve threw his shield, ricocheting off the armor as Stark blasted him with repulsors. They only slowed him down, spikes emerging from his armored fists that he swung at Steve. 

The fight lasted scarce minutes, the man a hard opponent but no match for their combined forces. Sam got a crawling gut feeling that something was off. Why would this guy march right into Stark Tower when he knew he couldn't win?

"Hey guys, does something not feel right to you?" he murmured into his earpiece. 

"Yeah, definitely," Steve replied.

"Jarvis, scan him for..something," Stark said.

There was a beat of silence as Jarvis ran before Stark relayed his findings, voice worried. "Uh, guys, there's some sort of explosive trigger device on him. If I were to bet, I'd say this is a distraction so he can blow up the tower."

"Shit," Sam said. "Any way to disable it?"

"Working on it....Negative. He has a button. You can't let him press it."

"Affirmative." Steve launched forward with deadly force, knocking off the guy's mask to reveal a twisted and scarred face that was eerily familiar. The guy that Sam had fought in the Triskellion, that he had seen on the security footage of the bank vault. He had thought he died when the building collapsed.

Rumlow smiled a twisted smile. "This is for dropping a building on my face." His hand moved, clutching a button, but Steve's hand shot out faster, wrenching it from his grip. They struggled a moment before Stark gave him a solid thwack in the head, eyes rolling back as he fell unconscious.

Steve exhaled, still gripping the button. "We need the bomb squad. We don't know where the explosives are."

"Calling it in," Stark replied. "Meanwhile, let's get this guy up to a holding room. I take it you know him?"

Steve nodded, face dark. No doubt he was also remembering that Rumlow was in the bank vault. "Brock Rumlow. Strike Team Alpha. He's Hydra."

Together they dragged him to a secure holding room, stripping him of his armor and weapons and giving the trigger to the bomb squad that arrived minutes later. Suddenly Bucky came jogging down the hallway, looking Steve and Sam over worriedly.

Steve looked shocked. "Bucky? What are you doing here?"

Bucky frowned. "Jarvis told me what happened and where you were. It's not like I went down and tried to fight him. Who is it?"

He stepped forward into the holding cell before they could reply, freezing. Rumlow sat in a chair, hands handcuffed to the table and head just beginning to nod as he woke up. Sam saw Bucky's chest hitch, hand shaking ever so slightly.

"Bucky, you don't have to be here," Steve said consolingly. Bucky didn't reply, frozen in place. Rumlow's eyes were blinking open, and when they landed on Bucky a leering smile stretched across his face.

"Well, look who it is. How's the head?"

Bucky's hands clenched into fists and he glared at Rumlow with pure hatred in his eyes. Rumlow's smile got bigger.

"Oh, I take it you remember? I wasn't sure you would. I mean, some things they just burned out so well...It was a pity, really."

Bucky was visibly shaking. Steve tried to gently grab his arm but he shrugged him off violently. "Don't touch me."

"Finally learned how to fight back, have you?" Rumlow remarked. "Finally learned to say no? You know, it would have been so much more fun that way. So much more of a challenge." He leaned forward. "It was pathetic, really. It isn't any fun when you just lay there and  _take it._ "

The words sent a stab of horror and understanding through Sam. Bucky's face contorted and suddenly he lunged forward with an unearthly scream, slamming into the table and wrapping a metal hand around Rumlow's throat.

"I'll kill you! I'll tear your fucking throat out!" He screamed.

Rumlow just gave a crazed grin as he choked. Stark was frozen by the entrance, looking stunned and horrified. Steve rushed forward, looking frantic. "Buck, no, stop! You can't kill him."

"Watch me," Bucky growled, increasing the pressure of his metal hand as Rumlow began to wheeze for air. Bucky was shaking all over, breaths coming in gasps and eyes wild and manic as Sam approached.

Sam raised his hands. "Bucky, we need you to let go. He has valuable information. And we got him. He's going to answer for his crimes."

Bucky's face contorted. "No, he won't. He won't." His voice broke, laced with pain.

Sam suddenly understood, and it broke his heart. "I know," he said softly. "I know. But you can't kill him. It won't change anything. It'll only make you look as bad as them."

He could see Bucky's metal hand loosen just a fraction, his face tormented. He closed his eyes before letting go and swinging his metal fist at Rumlow's head, knocking him unconscious again. Then he seemed to crumple, tears spilling from his eyes as sobs ripped from his throat.

Steve took a step forward, eyes pained. "Bucky-"

Bucky stumbled forwards, crashing into Steve and pressing his face into his shoulder. Steve looked shell-shocked, arms hovering awkwardly at his sides as Bucky clung to him and cried, and Sam's heart shattered into pieces.

 ***

Bucky lay with his head on Steve's lap as Steve stroked his hair soothingly. The sobs had subsided, leaving him empty and aching. He vaguely remembered Steve gently dragging him away from the holding room and up to their floor, where he had deposited them on the couch. Sam must have left at some point, although Bucky couldn't remember when. He might have been laying here for five minutes or five hours, he didn't know. His head was resting on folded blanket on Steve's lap, another blanket thrown over him. He was on his right side, back against the couch and hands gripping Steve's leg. Steve's fingers were light as they gently ran through his hair, soft pinpricks against his scalp that made him feel calm and safe. But he remembered the events of that afternoon and squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face slightly into Steve's lap. The hand on his head paused.

"Bucky?" Steve said softly.

Bucky opened his eyes, staring at the opposite wall as the ache in his chest doubled. He didn't reply, and after a while the hand on his head resumed it's soft strokes, silence filling the room again.

"He raped me." It poured from his lips unexpectedly in a soft whisper, Bucky's gaze still fixed on the wall and a numb feeling growing inside him.

The hand on his head paused for just a moment, an intake of breath audible, before it resumed again, slightly shaky. 

"I'm sorry, Buck." Steve sounded choked up. "I'm so sorry that happened to you, and I'll make sure he pays." A finger skimmed across his forehead, brushing strands of hair away from it. "It doesn't change how I see you. I don't love you any less, if you were worried about that, and I'm glad you told me. We can figure this out, together. I promise I'm not going anywhere."

Bucky closed his eyes again, tightening his hold on Steve's leg as a single tear slipped down his face. Steve brushed it away with a finger, not letting up his ministrations on Bucky's hair. Eventually, exhausted, Bucky drifted off to sleep, Steve's hand steady and comforting as he murmured something inaudible just as darkness swallowed Bucky up.

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a modicum of happiness after all that angst *throws glitter*

When Bucky woke the room was dark, and he was alone. He was still lying on the couch but there was a pillow under his head instead of Steve, and Koshka curled up by his feet. Confused, he sat upright, squinting in the dim light. He threw his legs over, pushing himself up, but stepped on something soft and lumpy, losing his balance and careening into the coffee table. He hit it and rolled off, landing on the floor with a thump.

"Ow," the lump proclaimed.

"What the fuck," Bucky swore, nursing his banged elbow.

"Bucky?" The lump questioned. _Steve?_

"What the fuck," Bucky repeated, struggling to his feet. The lump also got to it's...his feet. Sure enough, it was Steve.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Sleeping."

"Funny, I was doing the same thing. Why are you on the floor?"

"Uh...well, you were sleeping."

Bucky's eyebrow climbed higher. "Yes, we've just established that. That doesn't answer my question."

"Well, I had to leave, but you were sleeping when I came back, and I didn't want you to be alone when you woke up, but I didn't want to disturb you, so I just took the floor, I mean it's actually more comfortable than the bed anyway and so, yeah." Bucky couldn't really see him in the darkness, but he would bet that Steve was blushing.

The events of...yesterday? came back to him suddenly and he stiffened. "Right."

They both stood there awkwardly in the dark for a moment before Steve seemed to regain sense and moved to turn on the lights. Bucky blinked in the sudden brightness, eyes readjusting. Steve came into view, hair messy and wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. He had obviously changed at some point. How long had Bucky been out? When he'd fallen asleep it had been late afternoon, and now it was....

"What time is it?" he asked.

Steve pulled out his phone. "Three a.m."

_Three a.m?_ Bucky must've slept for almost eleven hours. His stomach took that moment took growl, reminding him he hadn't eaten in over fifteen. Steve winced sympathetically.

"Diner?"

Bucky nodded. They hadn't been back in a while in case people tried to catch them there after that video went viral. But it had been a week and a half, so they were probably safe. 

He put on sweatpants, sneakers, a glove, and a sweatshirt, and threw his hair up in a bun before heading out with Steve. Nicole beamed when she saw them. "Long time no see," she said brightly.

"Sorry," Steve said. "Had to make sure all the news died down first. I apologize if you got dragged into it."

She waved a hand. "I'm fine. It's been pretty quiet around here, surprisingly. Not many people actually recognized the inside of the diner from the video."

Steve smiled. "Good. We like coming here."

He and Bucky sat down in their usual booth as Nicole left to get them coffees, an awkward silence falling.

"How are you feeling?" Steve asked worriedly.

Bucky shrugged, looking down as he fiddled with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. "Okay."

"They, uh, took him," Steve said. "He's in FBI custody now."

Bucky nodded, pulling on a thread in the fraying hem. Nicole returned with two coffees, sliding them across the table.

"The usual?"

Steve nodded. She disappeared again, leaving them alone. Bucky took a sip from the mug, the hot liquid burning his tongue but making heat blossom in his chest. He curled his hands around the mug and let the warm steam waft into his face, taking a deep breath.

Steve took a sip as well. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Bucky shook his head.

"Okay. Just know I'm here to listen if you do," Steve said gently. "I meant what I said yesterday. I'm not going anywhere." He laid his left hand on the table, palm up. Bucky slowly reached over with his right hand and took it, squeezing in silent thanks. Steve squeezed back, smiling softly.

They broke apart when Nicole brought their meal, her gaze flitting briefly to their joined hands. Her eyes softened and a small smile crept on her face as she set their plates down.

"Enjoy," she said simply.

They thanked her and dug in, Bucky starving after not eating for so long. When they had finished and bid Nicole goodbye they headed back to the tower, the streets relatively quiet for 4 a.m. on a Sunday. Bucky pressed against Steve and subtly grabbed his hand, interlacing their fingers. Steve shot him a smile, squeezing his hand, and Bucky felt warmth bloom within him.

***

Steve and he headed to the workout floor around seven, Sam in tow. He had asked how Bucky was feeling, but after that hadn't pressed, and Bucky was thankful. They entered the large floor, with high ceilings, a large space for sparring, punching bags, and all sorts of assorted equipment. Bucky wasn't supposed to strain his shoulder, but he found ways around it. He did stretches, practiced with knives, and broke a punching bag just using kicks. Steve destroyed another punching bag with his fists while Sam shook his head at them both and did laps around the indoor track. The exercise helped to clear Bucky's head, and he would be lying if he said he didn't picture Rumlow's face on the target as he hurled knives at it, or imagine the punching bag was his body. He had just executed a perfect pirouette into a kick-flip before hitting a bullseye with his knife when Sam jogged over, resting his hands on his knees.

"Damn, that is impressive," he panted. "Dude, you're literally using one arm and yet you could probably kick my ass in five seconds flat."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk on his face. "Aiming high, are we?"

Sam scoffed in affront. "Oh, that's how it is?"

Bucky cocked his head, crossing his arms. "That's how it is."

"Alright then, come at me. No knives, no metal arm, no serious injury. I wanna see how long it takes." He raised his voice. "Hey Steve! We need a timer."

Steve jogged over, looking confused. "A timer?"

Sam grinned. "We're gonna see how long it takes Barnes to put me on my ass. I said five seconds, he said...." He looked at Bucky. "What's your bet?"

Bucky pretended to think. "Two."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Alright. Steve, you're the timer." Steve pulled out his phone. "Count down from three and then go." He squared off in front of Bucky, Bucky adopting a relaxed stance as he assessed Sam's weak points. 

Steve looked dubious. "Okay. For the record this is a terrible idea." He held his finger over the timer on his phone. "Three, two, one, GO!"

Bucky moved like lightening, and with a twist of his wrist and a swipe of his foot Sam was on the mat, looking stunned. Bucky stood above him, smirking. He turned his head to look at Steve.

"How long?"

Steve's eyes were wide as he looked down at his phone. "Uh, like one second."

Bucky turned back to Sam, grinning. "Oops."

"I hate you," Sam groaned, accepting Bucky's hand up. "But I humbly accept defeat. I mean, I'm no super soldier."

Steve patted Sam's shoulder consolingly. "Sorry man. You're a damn good flier though."

Sam perked up. "Oh, yeah. I have the wings here and this floor is big enough to fly a bit. That would definitely be more of a fair fight." He turned to Bucky. "You and me again, but I get the wings. Same rules apply, plus you can't damage the wings. Don't think I've forgotten how you tore off my last one."

Bucky grimaced. "Sorry."

"Eh, not your fault. Just please don't do it again. These things are my babies, and Stark would kill me if I damaged them just training. Actually, you know what, how about you teach me how _not_ to have that happen again. I need to up my combat skills and there's no one more skilled than you. You can teach me that fancy pirouette thing you do."

Bucky shrugged. "Sure." If he could put his training to good use, then why not? He definitely owed Sam.

In five minutes Sam was geared up and in his wings, the new ones gleaming red and silver. He flew around while Bucky gave him tips and they occasionally sparred, Sam a quick learner. Soon he was able to evade all Bucky's attempts to grab him out of the air and even landed a kick to Bucky's back that knocked him flat. 

"Sorry!" he yelled.

"No you're not!" Bucky yelled back.

Then they upgraded to Bucky throwing tennis balls with deadly aim while Sam attempted to dodge them. Steve mainly watched, torn between worry and amusement. By the time they called a halt, both were sweaty and bruised, although Sam considerably more so. Bucky felt lighter than he had in days, which was probably Sam's goal.

He trudged up to his floor with Steve, taking a hot shower and dressing in clean clothes. Steve got in the shower after he was done, marginally less sweaty and tired. Sam reappeared, showered and clean, and joined Steve and Bucky in the living room where they all crashed into their usual spots.

"We need to do that more often," Sam said. "Although maybe not too often. I feel like I got hit by a truck."

"Should've dodged," Bucky grunted. Sam flipped him the bird.

"You know, when you get your new arm it's going to be even better," Steve mused. "Maybe we could even spar. You're the only one who's actually evenly matched to me. I can never spar with anyone."

Bucky nodded hesitantly. If he could handle throwing things at Sam, maybe he could handle sparring Steve. It would just be hard because last time they'd fought, Bucky was legitimately trying to kill him. "Stark says the surgery should be some time this week, but it may take a while to heal."

Steve nodded. "Yeah. That's okay. We have time." He smiled at Bucky, and Bucky realized  _yes, we have time. We have all the time in the world._ And maybe someday, somewhere, he would be okay.

***

Imani and Maria came over for dinner, filling the apartment with light and comfort. Their chattering voices overrode the negative ones in Bucky's head, and his mind cleared of anything but the present. Maria beamed with pride at his cooking skills while Imani and Steve excitedly discussed art and Sam teased all of them. It reminded Bucky of his family, making a gentle ache bloom in his chest. God, he hadn't thought about his family in forever. They were all gone, now. His youngest sister, Nora, had died in 2010 at the age of 86, only a year before Steve came out of the ice and four years before Bucky broke free of Hydra. He remembered a house full of warmth and laughter, music playing through the radio as he taught his three younger sisters to dance, pigtails twirling and eyes sparkling. His mother, Winifred Barnes, a large, matronly woman with a stern voice and dark hair, spatula in hand as she frowned in mock-annoyance. His father, George Barnes, mild-mannered and stoic, mustache trimmed neatly and glasses affixed to the bridge of his nose as he squinted over his newspaper. 

They were all gone, laid to rest in a small plot in Brooklyn. He had looked it up on the internet a little while ago, ashamed that he hadn't thought of his family before then. His ma had gone first, in 1946, two years after they had declared Bucky dead. A broken heart, someone said. His pa followed her within the year, leaving his sisters Andrea, Nora, and Rebecca behind. Each had led full lives, gotten married, and had children. Nora, the youngest, became Nora Davidson and had had three boys. Andrea Greenfield had two daughters. Rebecca Barnes-Proctor had two children, a boy and a girl.

Bucky ached to think that Rebecca had died never knowing he was alive. She was the oldest of the girls, only a year younger than Bucky, and they had always been close. 'Bucky and Becca,' people called them. They often pretended they were twins, nearly identical with their dark hair and blue-gray eyes, wicked sense of humor, and keen mind. He remembered her hugging him fiercely when he left, tears in her eyes.  _You come back safe,_ she had demanded.  _You promise me, James Buchanan Barnes. You promise me you'll come home._

_I'm here now,_  he wanted to tell her.  _I kept my promise._ But Rebecca was long gone. 

Bucky hadn't had the courage to reach out to his nieces and nephews, didn't even know if they wanted to see him. He had been long dead by the time they came into the world, no more than a story. Andrea and Nora had been twenty-two and twenty when he died, and their children were long grown and had adult children of their own. There was nothing there for him, no one to remember him. He missed his little sisters with a profound sadness, missed their messy hair and wide smiles and twinkling eyes, missed the way they would let him do their hair in the mornings and wrap their small arms around his waist as if he could protect them from all the troubles of the world. It had only been a few years for him, only a few years since they were young and bright and beautiful and he was bidding them goodbye as they cried. But for the world, it had been seventy, and his sisters had grieved and lived and grown old and died without him. Now, watching as Maria twirled Imani around the living room as Steve, Sam, and he cheered from the couch, he felt a pang of nostalgia and grief.

"Bucky, come join us!" Imani exclaimed. "Steve told me all about your dancing skills." She winked. "I wanna learn the Lindy Hop."

Maria nodded. "Listen, I am not wasting this opportunity. Hop to it, Bucky." She grinned at her own joke.

Bucky groaned, shooting Steve a glare. "Really, Steve?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Come on, Buck."

With a put-upon sigh he heaved himself off the couch and took Imani's outstretched hand, feeling deja vu wash over him. "Okay, so you start like this..."

***

 It was 8:00 a.m. Monday morning, and Bucky and Steve were just returning from a walk in Central Park. There were few people out, only a few runners and families walking in the early morning. This was the first time Bucky had been out of the tower in the daytime, only ever going to the diner in the early hours of the morning. He had worried about being recognized, but he and Steve wore hats and sunglasses and it had been months since DC and over a week since the latest video of him. They had hoped that in a busy city like New York no one would look twice, and it seemed to hold true.

He breathed in the crisp morning air, the sounds of the city a familiar hum in his ears. The sun was shining, Bucky hot in his long-sleeved shirt and glove in the July heat. At least he was wearing airy athletic shorts and comfortable sneakers that made up for it, and Steve was wearing a shirt about two sizes two small that definitely didn't help the undercover look.

They were walking down the sidewalk on their way back, a comfortable silence between them, when something caught Bucky's eye. He took off his sunglasses and turned slightly just in time to see a small child run into the busy street, chasing a rolling ball. Time seemed to slow as a taxi bore down on her, the child looking down, oblivious to the danger. Bucky was moving just as a panicked scream split the air.

"Emma, no!"

Bucky threw himself in front of the girl-no time and too much traffic to push her out of the way-and shielded himself with his metal arm, crouching down and leaning into the impact as he grabbed the girl with his right hand. The taxi hit him with the force of a battering ram, his feet digging into the pavement as the hood of the taxi crumpled against his metal arm. It was over in a second, a beat of silence falling as he raised his head and assessed the damage. There was a throb of pain through his shoulder, the joint protesting the assault. He turned to his right, scanning the girl up and down for injuries. 

"You okay?" he asked softly, releasing his death grip on her arm.

The girl nodded, looking shocked and tearful. Suddenly she rocked forward, launching herself at him and wrapping her arms around his neck. She buried her face into his right shoulder, trembling.

Surprised, Bucky froze before lifting a careful hand to support her and standing up, the girl clutching him tighter. His left arm hung at his side, sleeve slightly ripped and metal glinting from underneath. Around them bystanders were gawking at the scene, and the driver was just getting out of the taxi, looking stunned as he took in the crumpled front of his car.

"You-" he stuttered. "How-what-"

"Call Stark Industries. They'll pay for the damage," Bucky grunted.

Ignoring his further protests Bucky made a beeline for the sidewalk where the girl's mother stood, eyes wide and face terrified.

"Hey, your mom's right here, kid," he said quietly. The girl lifted her head, face tear-streaked as she looked around. When Bucky got to the sidewalk he set her down, the mother immediately running to sweep her up into a tight embrace.

"Don't you  _ever_ do that again," she said tremulously.

Bucky shifted awkwardly, aware of people staring at them and unsure what to do. Finally the mother looked up, gaze flitting to the wrecked taxi, the glint of metal in his left arm, and then to his face, where her eyes widened.

Bucky hunched his shoulders, turning to leave. "Well, I'll just-"

"Wait," she interrupted. Her voice softened. "You saved my daughter's life. I just wanted to say, _thank you_."

The thank you spoke volumes, not just for her daughter but for much more. He nodded, looking down. The little girl extricated herself from her mother's embrace and looked up at him.

"Thank you," she repeated seriously, eyes wide and watery.

Bucky hesitated before taking off his hat and kneeling down so he was level with the girl, meeting her eyes.

"You're welcome. It's Emma, right?"

The girl nodded excitedly, smiling. "Yes. My name is Emma."

"Hello Emma, my name is Bucky."

Emma's eyes widened, voice awestruck. "You're Bucky?"

Bucky nodded hesitantly.

Emma's face lit up. "That's how you saved me, because you're a superhero. My best friend says Iron Man is her favorite Avenger, but you're _my_ favorite hero." she said proudly.

Bucky felt his throat close up and had to blink several times to clear mist from his eyes. "You-uh, thank you," he managed, totally caught off guard. "I'm honored."

Emma beamed. "Can I give you a hug?"

His lip twitched. "Of course."

Emma threw herself into his arms again, squeezing tightly. He carefully wrapped his flesh arm around her, the other hanging at his side. When she pulled away she grabbed his face and planted a kiss on his forehead, leaving Bucky bemused until she spoke.

"Mama says your head got hurt, and when I get hurt she kisses it better. Now it's all better," Emma said solemnly.

Bucky found himself blinking back tears for the second time that day. "Thank you," he said hoarsely. "It is better now. You must have magic powers."

Emma giggled before frowning at his metal arm. "Did your arm get hurt too?"

Bucky swallowed, then nodded. "Yeah. But it's okay now. Want to know a secret?"

Emma nodded excitedly, leaning in.

"Iron Man is building me a cool new robot arm," Bucky whispered.

Emma's eyes widened and she stared at his arm.  

Bucky looked up to see her mother watching with tears in her eyes. He cleared his throat before looking at Emma again.

"Now, can you promise me not to wander into the road again? It's very dangerous and you could've been hurt."

Emma nodded, looking downcast. "Yes. I'm sorry. I promise not to do it again."

He tilted her chin up with one hand. "Don't worry, I'm not mad. I just want you to stay safe. Can't go losing my favorite fan, now can I?

She brightened once more. "Favorite? 

Bucky nodded, smiling. "Favorite."

***

Tony sauntered in, waving his phone. "I take back everything I said before.  _This_ is the most adorable thing I've ever seen. I had no idea brainwashed assassins were so good with kids."

Bucky sighed, sitting up on the couch and scrubbing his face. "You do know I had three little sisters, right?" He was glad Tony was ignoring the fact that the last time he had seen him, Bucky had tried to kill Rumlow and then had a mental breakdown. That was his favorite thing about Tony, that he avoided intense emotional conversations and could usually succeed in making Bucky smile.

Tony's face scrunched. "Seriously? How did I not know this? Anyway, you're blowing up the internet again with your complete adorableness. Looks like saving a cute little girl and then being sickeningly sweet with her really helps your public image. People are positively fawning over you."

Bucky rolled his eyes. He had seen all the reports on his phone and already knew what people were saying about him. He couldn't quite believe that everyone seemed so enamored by him. They seemed to have forgotten all the Hydra and brainwashed-assassin stuff quickly, and were calling him all sorts of soft and cutesy adjectives that honestly baffled him, like the strange comparison to a cinnamon roll.

Tony was still speaking. "-and there's a bunch of reporters calling wanting an interview with you, also apparently the guy whose taxi you crushed wants money, and-"

"Interview?" Bucky interrupted.

Tony blinked. "Yeah, I mean there's been a steady trickle since you got here but now that it's clear you're all good in the head they've been pouring in. Everyone wants to talk to you."

Bucky worried his lip. "Should I?"

"Should you what?"

"Talk to them?"

"Oh." Tony looked considering. "I mean, it's your choice. I wouldn't talk to everyone, though. Maybe just one or two of the really good ones. Pepper would know."

Bucky nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Okay-okay you want to do that? You actually want to talk to reporters?"

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I'm going to have to eventually. If I don't, they'll just speculate more. Plus Hydra is almost gone, right? There's no danger in being more visible."

Tony shrugged. "Your call, Tin Man. But I think you're right, and Hydra is going down in flames. They don't have the resources to make any sort of planned attack. Actually, an interview would kinda be a big 'fuck you' to them, which I'm a huge fan of. So yeah, let me call Pepper and she'll know what to do."

"Sounds good. Thanks."

Tony waved a hand. "Oh yeah, the real reason I came up was to tell you that I found a team of surgeons and doctors. If you're still good, we can move ahead with the surgery on Friday. Especially great because I'm pretty sure you just fucked up your shoulder more with that cool car-stopping thing this morning, am I right?"

Bucky grimaced. "Yeah." His shoulder was throbbing pretty badly, even though he'd taken his pain pill this morning. "I'm good with the surgery though."

"Great! I mean, not great that your shoulder sucks, but yay for getting it fixed. The doctors want to meet you and take a look at your shoulder in person, does tomorrow morning work for you?"

Bucky nodded. It wasn't like he was doing anything.

"Cool. I'll let them know and text you an exact time." Tony walked closer and plopped down on the armchair. "So, where's Steve?"

"Going to meet a friend. Romanoff just got back from Europe."

"Ah. You not going?"

Bucky shook his head. "I'll meet her when she comes back here. I did shoot her the last time I saw her."

Tony winced. "Right. A real conversation starter, that."

Bucky looked over at Tony, hesitating. "Speaking of that. How do you-I mean, you've done so much for me. And I-I killed your parents. Why are you helping me?"

Tony picked at the arm of the chair, shrugging. "I told you before. You're a victim. I don't blame you."

"No-but-even if you didn't blame me, you didn't have to do all this. You-you're going above and beyond. Why?"

Tony sighed. "I don't know. Maybe it's some sense of guilt, that I could've stopped all this somehow. I could have looked into Shield deeper and seen Hydra. Maybe it's because I grew up hearing stories about you and I feel like I owe you. Maybe it's because I do owe Steve, and you're important to him." His voice grew quieter. "Maybe it's because I see myself in you, if I was a better person. Take your pick. The point is, I don't know. But whatever the reason, you didn't deserve anything that happened to you and if I can make even the tiniest bit right, then I damn well am going to try. I've done a lot of bad things in my life, caused a lot of damage. If I can help you..."

"Then maybe you can be helped, too," Bucky finished. "Maybe you're a good person." Tony blinked at him in surprise and Bucky shrugged. "I think you are a good person. You don't need to prove that. But I understand. You just want to do something right and I'm the closest thing you can do something about."

Tony's mouth opened and closed. "Yeah. Shit. No. That sounds..bad. It's not cause you just happen to be closest-"

"It's fine," Bucky interjected. "I told you, I understand. I just wanted to know why, and now I know."

"No. You're not just some...project," Tony said. "I need you to know that, because you don't deserve to be treated like that again, like with Hydra. I genuinely like you, Barnes. Maybe I started doing this out of some misplaced guilt or whatever, but not now. Now I do it because we're friends." He suddenly looked uncharacteristically vulnerable. "We are friends, right?"

Bucky exhaled and softened, heart filling with warmth. "Yeah Tony," he said. "We're friends."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tie-in work about Becca and Bucky here:[ **Promises**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14288778)


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